


Nights of Hedonia

by misqueue



Series: Nights of Hedonia [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sci Fi, Blaine Anderson & June Dolloway - mentor and protege, Blaine Anderson & Tina Cohen-Chang - Freeform, Chandler Kiehl/Kurt Hummel - past minor background, Conversation, Cultural Differences, Drama, Elliot Gilbert/Kurt Hummel - Friends with Benefits, Erotica, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Hedonism, Innocence, Intimacy, M/M, Mercedes Jones/Sam Evans - Freeform, Multi, Orgy, Politics, Rimming, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Discovery, Space Opera, Technological body modification, Threesome, sci fi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 74,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2428349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misqueue/pseuds/misqueue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sci Fi AU. Blaine has attained a high rank at a young age in the Apathean Diplomatic Corps, thanks to his diligence and talent as well as the generous mentoring of renown Ambassador June Dolloway. However, a mission to negotiate with the pleasure loving Elyssians may threaten all he’s worked so hard for.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>13 January 2017 - fic updates are on a temporary hiatus until I finish "The Arrangement". Thank you for your patience. <3</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/48822.html?thread=63290550) on the GKM.

To travel in space, equilibrium is essential. The strength and shape of the ship's hull must contain precisely the right pressure, the right gravity. It must insulate and protect its living passengers against the hostile vacuum without. The thought occupies Blaine's mind presently, for he's about to leave the haven of this ship, upon which he's been traveling, perfectly safe and warm, for the past several weeks. He'll soon embark upon an inter-ship shuttle, a smaller more fragile courier, to make their scheduled rendezvous with the foreign craft. That's two airlocks to transit. 

He notes his elevated heart rate and deepens his breathing to compensate, to quiet the thrill tickling his belly. He's not afraid, but excited. 

"Now remember," Ambassador Dolloway is saying as Blaine helps her adjust the wide ceremonial sash of her office. "The Elyssians, for all their decadence and passion value honesty in their affairs above many other virtues."

Blaine smooths the heavy black satin over her bony shoulders. The tiny silver beads stitched into the glossy material roll and catch beneath his fingers. He's careful not to dislodge a single one of them. "Yes, ma'am," he says over her shoulder. His placid reflection in her mirror betrays none of his anticipation. Outside the round viewport of her quarters, the stars gleam motionless against the black of space, serene in their stasis.

"So you need to be as literal-minded as possible."

"I understand," Blaine says. It's part of their usual rhythm before these kind of events. Blaine is both well-studied and well-prepared, but Ambassador June Dolloway tells him how to do his job anyway. In the three years he's spent in her service, he's never yet disappointed her. Her reminders to him, he knows, are not a matter of her doubting his capability, but more a matter of her own preparation.

"And be sure to let me know if you think the translator is taking liberties. You're my back up."

"Of course," Blaine says. He catches her gaze in the mirror. "You can rely on me."

"And you know I do," she says with a brief, rare smile. "Now, indulge the vanity of your elder and tell me, how do I look?"

"Powerful," Blaine says, and it's true. Despite her advanced age, the ambassador is clear-eyed and stern, standing straight and strong-shouldered in her austere dark tunic and long skirt. Her sash glitters, and each bead represents a world in the Apathean Commonwealth. She is here to negotiate with Elyssia on behalf of them all.

"And let me have a look at you, Mr. Anderson," she says, turning away from her mirror to face him.

Blaine squares his shoulders and joins his hands at the small of his back so she may evaluate him. He wears the stiff, high-collared blue tunic of the Diplomatic Corps. His wide trousers are gray and his boots polished black. The red silk braid at his shoulders denotes his rank: First Personal Assistant to an ambassador. The cluster of three gold stars set into a silver circle pinned upon his breast, denotes the rank of the ambassador he serves: the highest.

His youth is uncommon for such a position, but Ambassador Dolloway took a liking to him when he was still a student. She's been of immense benefit to his career, and he's worked hard to be worthy of her high standards and reputation.

The Ambassador tugs one of his sleeves and peers at his face critically. He shaved twice this morning in preparation for the opening of talks with the Elyssia. Not a single hair lies out of place on his head. The Elyssia place a great deal of value on the aesthetic details of presentation, and this is his first time encountering their culture directly. The eagerness in his belly is easily quelled though. Despite the stories he's heard of the culture's excesses—and the research he's done hints that at least some of it is true—he trusts himself to conduct himself with all the professionalism and the dignity of June Dolloway's office.

"Very nice," she says at last. "You are a credit to me always, Blaine."

The Ambassador's praise never fails to warm him, though he knows he would do his duty regardless.

.

The shuttle ride to the Elyssian ship of state is quiet with concentration and anticipation. On the approach to the larger craft, the cabin lights are dimmed, and Blaine sinks back into the shadowed cushion of his seat behind the Ambassador. Outside the window beside him, he gets his first glimpse of _The Galactic Diamond_ hanging in space like a giant golden butterfly with her solar sails unfurled. She's delicate looking for a warship.

The Ambassador is staffed by more people than Blaine this day. Protocol allows five in their delegation. It's a number auspicious to Elyssian sensibilities. Major Hunter Clarington sits opposite the aisle from him, intimidating in both stature and his formal military uniform. The only weapon he wears openly is a phase dagger, its hilt tied with an intricate peace knot. Next to Blaine, by the window, sits Trent Nixon, round-faced and studious. A small line of concern mars the skin between his eyebrows. He's the translator, assigned late to the mission. Blaine's never worked with him before, but he's heard good things, and they're the same age.

There's also Nick Duval, a reluctant cultural attaché, who spent an exchange year interning at a consulate on one of the Elyssian outer colonies. He's responsible for some of the more incredible stories Blaine's heard.

That was before the war began, and Apathea called all of her diplomats home. And it's this war that Elyssia has been drawn into—since the ever acquisitive Charn invaded several of their outer colonies—that brings June Dolloway and her staff to this negotiation. After nearly five years of minimal contact, the pacific minded Elyssia seek military aid from Apathea.

.

At the airlock, Blaine deploys his data rig's discreet eyepiece, activates his AR overlay, and offers Ambassador Dolloway his arm. Hunter precedes them as a matter of formality. Blaine's first impression is light and space. The airlock, practical though it is, is as grand as any temple Blaine has visited. Its pearlescent walls curve up to a tapered teardrop above them and billow out alongside them. The floors appear to be actual timber, polished to a satin shine beneath Blaine's boots. Light seems to come from every surface; he can't isolate a single source. As Blaine looks at the walls more closely, he makes out a mosaic of small shimmering tiles, subtle tone on tone, making intricate fractal patterns that swoop and coil like ferns. It makes him curious to touch, to find if there's texture too.

So he turns his attention to those who are welcoming them. The iris hatch before them unfurls with a soft gasp of sweetly scented air. Councilor Isabelle Wright steps through first. Blaine recognizes her easily from the reports he's been studying. She's the one advocating for forceful resistance of the Charn intrusion into Elyssian space. Her political position is weak, due to the small size of the Elyssian military. Their navy is little more than a ceremonial and sentimental tie to the past. Many in her government would prefer to negotiate a surrender. This meeting is of essential importance in shoring up her power.

And yet, Isabelle Wright is not entirely what Blaine expects, given the transcripts of her speeches and the strength of her stance. She's slender to the point of fragility, wrapped in a pale green gown of some diaphanous material Blaine cannot name. The drape of the fabric is sheer upon her body in a way that makes Blaine avert his eyes for a moment. A person's nipples are never on display in Apathean culture, not even a hint of them. He aims to keep his attention upon her face, which is gentle. Her eyes are lined in dark powder, and a circlet rests upon her loose golden hair.

Beside her is a tall woman with close cropped black hair and bright red lips. Blaine's recognizes her as Captain Daphne Dupont of the Elyssian Naval Command—this is her ship. She wears the deep gold of what passes for an Elyssian military uniform, though to Blaine's eye it still looks peculiar. Her pants are tight around her long legs, and her jacket is cut sharply in at the waist. The heels on her knee high boots are in no way practical. There's a short royal blue cape draped over her shoulder and a saber at her side—an old fashioned metal blade. A peace knot like Hunter's binds the hilt to the scabbard.

The next person to step into the airlock is a willowy young man with a pale face sculpted into such lovely angles, that it rivals the beauty of every statue of Apollo Blaine has ever seen. 

He's not familiar to Blaine—wasn't in Blaine's portfolio of those in Councilor Wright's negotiating team. The man is dressed in luminous white trousers tucked into tall heeled boots similar to the ones the captain wears. As they draw close, Blaine can see the shine of the man's trousers comes from a delicate pattern embroidered upon the white in silver thread. His shirt is collared, but open at the throat, open down to his breastbone. The expanse of bared skin, the hint of the shape of his flesh, makes Blaine swallow hard. The material is similar to Councilor Wright's dress, but in a soft steel blue.

Over the shirt, he wears a tightly laced waistcoat of gray velvet. He doesn't wear a jacket, and at his throat is knotted a red scarf, a flash of color that matches the Captain's lips. An ornate silver brooch is pinned to his lapel. Blaine doesn't recognize it as an insignia of rank. He gives a subvocal prompt to his data rig to identify the man, and it tells him this man is Kurt Hummel, Master of Hospitality for Isabelle Wright. Blaine struggles to turn his attention away.

He's only partially successful. He easily recognizes the other two attending the Councilor. His AR provides him names and titles anyway: Chase Madison, chief of staff, and Elliott Gilbert, public relations. But then, like gravity, he's drawn back to Kurt Hummel. This time, Kurt Hummel is looking directly back at him, and Blaine flinches from the boldness of his eye contact. Blaine turns his attention back to the Ambassador and takes one step back as she slips her arm from his and steps forward alone to meet Councilor Wright.

"We have come into the world to work together," Ambassador Dolloway says in flawless Elyssian, offering both of her hands, palms up. It is the customary greeting of the Apathea, the proper way to open all negotiations, spoken in the language of your negotiating partner. Blaine and Trent tutored her pronunciation for days.

"Welcome to our ship. Let us set to increase all good things," replies Councilor Wright. She places her hands in Ambassador Dolloway's. "Please call me Isabelle," she says. "For surely we are friends today."

And though Blaine still senses the weight of Kurt Hummel's scrutiny in his peripheral vision, Blaine does not fidget. He stands behind the Ambassador, his posture correct, formal, and attentive. He does his best to listen while keeping his gaze lowered politely. But when he steals an inevitable glance back at Kurt Hummel, Master of Hospitality, he finds the man smiling at him, head cocked to the side, looking at him so brazenly Blaine's lips part in surprise and his whole body flushes with the heat of embarrassment. He's hooked, helplessly, by the widening curve of Kurt Hummel's smile. Blaine is unable to tear his gaze away for several long heartbeats. He even forgets to listen to Trent translating.

Kurt Hummel's bright blue eyes gleam with intrigued amusement, and he inclines his head toward Blaine in acknowledgment of some unspoken thing between them, but Blaine cannot fathom what this unsettling man thinks he's just learned.


	2. Chapter 2

After the formal greetings and introductions, the Councilor—Isabelle, she insists—tells them she looks forward to seeing them at the dinner reception that evening. Until then, she'll leave them in Kurt Hummel's care, so that he may show them to their quarters, where they can relax and refresh from their travels.

The guest quarters are several decks above the docking level, Kurt explains. "You should enjoy the trip up," he says. Kurt leads them to an elevator that is, aside from its doors, completely transparent. The faceted angles of it shine more glossy than glass, and, curious, Blaine looks out. The Ambassador does not. 

The view from the elevator reveals they're several stories up the side of an expansive interior space of the ship. It's an atrium as big as a city park—and nearly as verdant. Tidy, ivory stone paths and colonnades weave between tall growing trees, swathes of lush grass, and beds of colorful flowers. A clear stream slithers a glittering trail from a tall waterfall hundreds of meters opposite their vantage point. It tumbles down from a high plateau, atop which Blaine sees people seated at tables, dining. There are also people below, reclining upon wide couches or walking beneath the trees. Some appear to be in various stages of intimate embrace with one another, so Blaine doesn't look directly at them. He attends instead to his AR display as it identifies the trees. 

They've got nothing like this on Apathean ships, not even the large civilian vessels. (And even the hydroponic bays on the _A.G.S. Mercury_ , the Apathean Guild Ship that brought them to their rendezvous with _The Galactic Diamond_ , were off limits to passengers, including the long term ones.) Blaine hasn't been planetside for so long, he sometimes forgets how much he misses the dappled shade of broad leafed trees and the gentle murmur of flowing water. 

Rapt, Blaine gazes out as the elevator rises. He sees a bright yellow bird take flight from a low shrub to find a taller perch in a pale-barked tree. It begins a trilling, cheerful song that he can hear clearly even in the confined space of the elevator. Lightly he touches the glass wall of the elevator, and he wonders if the bird is real.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Kurt says, near Blaine's shoulder.

"It's remarkable," Blaine replies, careful to keep the awe from his voice. The Ambassador will think the atrium extravagant and impractical, but one should at least admire the skill and audacity. He spares Kurt a quick glance and an even quicker smile. "Your engineers are very talented."

.

Once they're out of the elevator, Kurt leads them down a relatively darker and silent corridor into the guest wing. Rather than the ivory fractal mosaic, here the curved walls are a steel gray near the floor, lightening in an even gradient to a gentle silver glow overhead. The floor is smooth but soft and absorbs the sound of their footsteps. They pass through several pairs of sliding doors of colored hexagonal glass tiles. As Blaine watches the doors, he sees how the colors seethe and swirl lazily—blue to indigo to violet to crimson, and then back again. It's soothing after the energetic brightness of the other spaces he's seen. 

They come to an intersection and Kurt passes Hunter, Nick, and Trent off to a tanned blond man in a plain gray suit. "This is Sam," Kurt says. "He's my chief assistant, and he'll do all he can to make your stay with us as pleasant as possible."

"This way, please," Sam says, and gestures for the three to follow him down a left turning branch of the hall.

"And you shall remain in my care, Ambassador, Mr. Anderson," Kurt says, and again Kurt's attention rests upon Blaine longer and with more intensity than seems strictly decorous. Blaine keeps his own attention on the Ambassador's back as they follow Kurt down another passageway. "I arranged for adjoining quarters, as your office requested," Kurt says. "And I have staff on call for you at any time, for any reason, even if I should be unavailable."

Blaine translates for the Ambassador, though he knows she knows enough Elyssian to get the general idea of Kurt's words.

"Thank you," the Ambassador says, and Kurt shows them to a wide, opaque door. Its surface is emblazoned with the Apathean Commonwealth's official seal, a silver sunburst on a blue field ringed in crimson. A biometric lock requires both the Ambassador's and Blaine's thumbprints as well as samples of their voice. It takes little time to set that up, and then the door opens, and Kurt steps back so the Ambassador may enter first.

Immediately across from the doors, the exterior span of the wall is transparent to space. It's disorienting for Blaine, feeling as if he's stepping outside rather than inside. He must make some physical indication of his surprise, for Kurt speaks again quickly. "The viewing windows are programmable. You can scale back the opacity if you wish, or trim the viewable area, or even have it display something else: a different texture, color, pattern, or view. Like all of the surfaces on our ship, it can be customized to your particular desires."

"That's convenient," Blaine says, he retracts his AR eyepiece so that it won't obstruct his vision, and he steps closer to see that, from here, they have a magnificent view of the ship's starboard side. He can make out the long arcing wing of her warp drive and the fine organic lattice of her solar sails. Within the room are two wide couches facing one another with a table in between. There's an oval bowl of fresh fruit upon it and a slender carafe of water on a tray accompanied by five glasses.

"Let me give you a demonstration of how the walls work," Kurt offers. "And show you the rooms' amenities and features."

"Master Hummel, address your instructions to Mr. Anderson," the Ambassador says brusquely. "For now, I need only know where I can work."

"Of course," Kurt says, and he shows the Ambassador to the rooms he's established as her private office and sleeping chamber. And then she dismisses him, goes into the office, and the door sweeps closed behind her.

For a moment, Kurt doesn't move. He stands, staring at the closed door, flexing the fingers of one hand against the seam of his trousers. A shadow of a frown dims his smile before he recovers and turns back to Blaine, an unexpected instant of something like disappointment.

"I'm curious to learn how the surfaces function," Blaine says brightly. "Your technology is so different from what I'm accustomed to."

"It will be my pleasure to teach you, Blaine," Kurt says, and it's so sincerely spoken, it makes Blaine wonder. For all that he's heard of this culture and the importance placed not only on pleasure, but also on honesty and kindness, he didn't expect this. But he understands how he finds his own satisfaction in attending to his duties and responsibilities, in excelling at his job. Kurt may not be so different.

The main control panel for the room is, itself, part of the wall display. Kurt brings it up near the door but explains the panel may be summoned on any interior wall in any room. It's responsive to touch, gesture, and voice. Blaine prefers voice, for while he's learned to speak Elyssian well enough, he's yet to master the complexity of their writing. Kurt shows him how to receive an automated translation of any text if he needs it. "The translations lack grace," Kurt says. "But they'll give you the information you require."

At that Blaine dares to lift his gaze to meet Kurt's. Kurt continues to look at him directly with a kind of interest that Blaine can't begin to understand. And, just as it was in the airlock, Blaine finds himself caught in the blue of Kurt's candid eyes. He grows warm and apprehension flutters in his belly. "Thank you," he says at last.

"You've never visited Elyssian space before?"

Blaine shakes his head. "No, this is my first time. My most recent and numerous assignments with Ambassador Dolloway have all been trade negotiations with the Hestari. They're much more alien, but their technology is straightforward and focused on the basics. The Ambassador appreciates that."

"She strikes me as a very practical woman, yes," Kurt says. Then his smile widens and he blinks at Blaine slowly. "You speak so well, I assumed you'd been among us before."

"I merely had a good teacher," Blaine says.

"Your teacher had a good student," Kurt says, and Blaine has to look down then. He should not indulge the flattery of his host.

"So, um," he says, "You mentioned other features?"

Kurt's smile returns to its more modest, professional level, and he shows Blaine to his own private rooms adjoining the Ambassador's suite. The sleeping chamber has the same broad transparent wall, and the bed is easily more than four times the dimensions of his cot on the Mercury. The bedding materials and generous array of pillows—rather than the plain synthetic wools and cottons he's used to—are shimmery, plush, and rich with color. Much like the doors, the palette is blue, indigo, violet, and crimson. Colors of the Apathean Commonwealth, and Blaine understands this is by Kurt's design. The room is uncluttered beyond that, a polished wooden bureau for his clothes, a mirror above it, and a pair of short tables flank the bed with nothing more than glass lamps atop them.

Blaine can sense Kurt's attention is on him. "This will be fine," Blaine says.

"There's a small private sitting room, too," Kurt says, "where you may work or meditate, as well as your own bathing facilities."

"Oh, that's—" Blaine was going to say, more than he needs. He's accustomed to sharing such facilities with his colleagues and the Ambassador. He has not had such privacy since he was a child in his parents home after his brother left. A glance at Kurt's face makes Blaine realize that hospitality is important enough here that he needs to be gracious as well as honest. "This is more than ample, Master Hummel. I believe my last vacation was less well-appointed."

Kurt's smile is worth it, and Blaine lets himself look and linger upon the beauty of Kurt's face. Simple aesthetic appreciation isn't a gross dereliction of his morals after all. There's no good reason not to enjoy his time here. The Ambassador considers such indulgences a privilege of youth even as she dismisses their importance. "You'll understand with time, Mr. Anderson," she has told him more than once. "The transience of these delights can bring only grief. Diligence to our duty is what endures, not small. shiny trifles, no matter how they distract and tempt. Anything you desire, once attained, may be lost—no," she would always correct, "they will be lost. You can't avoid it, it's the way of life. So it's far better to temper such childish impulses. To be a man is to conduct yourself with wisdom and temperance. Incorporate those virtues into your practice, and you'll go far."

"I'm so pleased to hear it," Kurt says and clasps his hands together. "I wish for your stay to be comfortable."

The irony is, Blaine can see the truth of the Ambassador's instruction in Kurt. The flash of his disappointment at the Ambassador's dismissal is a kind of pain caused by the frustration of desire, and his delight at Blaine's acceptance of his efforts is the fulfillment of a transient wish (for Blaine well knows that there's little Kurt could do or not do that would affect the Ambassador's work here). Blaine is still learning how to balance those impulses in himself. Sometimes he thinks his sincere pursuit of excellence is a kind of desire, and he worries that he may enjoy his successes too much. But he reminds himself that the Ambassador's approval validates his hard work. Her disapproval means he's failed. It's not truly about the trifles of his ego, but the scope of the work to which he contributes.

"And please," Kurt says, bringing Blaine out of his contemplation. "I prefer that you call me Kurt. We are friends today, are we not, Blaine?"

Despite the echo of the formal words, there is warmth in Kurt's eyes. They don't know each other well enough for Blaine to claim true friendship, but he understands Kurt's words to be sincere, and he is here to be friends of a sort. "Of course, Kurt," he says.

The bathroom is the most ostentatious room for attending to hygiene that Blaine has ever encountered. It's large enough for a small bed, to start with. Then there's a bathtub which is larger than a bed. To fill such a vessel with water, and for the purposes of lingering in it while bathing—a task which can be accomplished far more efficiently in the pressure showers he grew up with—seems, at best, wasteful of time and resource. But Blaine listens as Kurt shows him how to fill the tub, how to manage the jets and add scented oils or bubbling foam or effervescent mixtures designed to soothe tired muscles or refresh a tired mind. 

"Thank you," Blaine says at the end of Kurt's spiel. "But I'll be using the shower."

Kurt has one more surprise for him, however. In the sitting room (a refreshingly modest and functional space) upon the console table is an array of refreshments: small snack-sized treats and an array of beverages. Blaine recognizes the cinnamon dusted butter cookies, the lemon wafers, and the savory cheese and walnut turnovers immediately, though he has had none of them in over a decade. "How did you…?" Blaine trails off, stunned.

Kurt arches an eyebrow and the corner of his lips quirks up. "I'm very good at my job. I only hope the chef staff have prepared the food accurately. I enjoyed their samples."

"I haven't eaten any of these for years," Blaine explains. "They were childhood treats my grandmother made for me." Blaine turns to Kurt, unsettled now in a wholly new way. No one he works with knows this about him. It's personal—an old trifling luxury meant to have been left behind with the other excesses of childhood. "Please tell me how you came by this knowledge, Kurt?"

Kurt's smile fades into concern. He speaks carefully. "When we're hosting new guests, I have my staff put together a dossier on each person we'll be hosting. It's based solely on publicly available information, I promise you."

"And my favorite childhood foods?" 

"Your school records were among the information my staff collected, Blaine. Many would skip such details as trivial, but I find special insight into a person if I consider their youth. You wrote an essay about your grandmother's cooking when you were ten."

The memory of it returns to him, awkwardly, like it belongs to an alternate dimension or time—or to another person entirely. It's an ill fit with his current occupation. "I did, you're right."

"Have I upset you?" Kurt asks.

Blaine shakes his head to spare Kurt the truth that he is upset, not angry but unsettled in an unexpected way. "You've just surprised me."

But Kurt seems to know. His face goes blank and he speaks coolly, "I can have the food removed, if you would prefer that." 

"It'll be fine," Blaine says, and this he does mean. "Dinner is a few hours away. I'll be grateful for a snack."

"All right," Kurt says with a nod of acceptance, though he remains wary in his demeanor. There's an uncomfortable silence between them. Then Kurt offers a short, stiff bow and says, "If you have no further need of me, I shall leave you to settle in. Your luggage should arrive soon."

But as Kurt turns to leave, Blaine can't stop the impulse that overtakes him, to try to salvage something of Kurt's earlier warmth and openness. "Wait," Blaine says, and then he surprises himself as he blurts out a question, "Will I see you at the dinner reception tonight?"

Kurt glances back over his shoulder and offers a noncommittal, "Perhaps."


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine permits himself only a moment more of perturbation before he turns his mind from Kurt, childhood treats, and sets his focus back to his work. He redeploys his eyepiece and checks for new correspondence, sends a few messages, updates his schedule, and then settles into an (exceptionally comfortable) armchair to go over his log of the conversation in the airlock. That absorbs him for the next hour, and then he takes a scheduled break when his reminder gently pings in his ear.

He stretches, methodically working through a sequence that keeps him alert and flexible, and then he pours himself a glass of water. The snacks on the table tempt, and he is curious. His stomach and mind agree that food is needed, so he picks up a plate and places upon it one of the savory turnovers.

The way the buttery pastry shears into flakes beneath his fingertips is exactly right. The taste is… close. There's too much of something—some spice or herb—than matches his memory. Blaine never knew how his grandmother made them. But it's so close. The warm scent of the filling transports him back to her dining room and auburn hued sunlight, the table set formally for the family Equinox dinner. She always took a lot of time with preparations, of not only the food but also the decor: selecting the right linens and centerpiece to compliment the season and the meal. No two years were the same. Some though her eccentric, but her attention to those small embellishments delighted Blaine when he was a child.

Never mind. He's an adult now, and its been seven years since he saw his birth family. It is both customary and appropriate that one leave behind their childhood at sixteen when they choose their trade. The Diplomatic Corps is his family now, and the Ambassador, the head of it. It's a good life, too. Blaine remains grateful that not only was he selected for the highly competitive government track, but also that he received his first choice of assignment—lucky that fortune favored him the day he caught June Dolloway's attention at an Academy debate. She praised his talent and made him promises she's kept.

So his nostalgia is nothing, truly. The warmth of old memories shifts in his mind, pleasant enough to behold briefly, but a pointless thing upon which to dwell. He can't go back, and nor does he wish to.

That doesn't mean Blaine doesn't finish the plate of turnovers and sample two each of the sweet cookies. The lemon wafers are perfect. The cinnamon dusted butter cookies lacks the fine tenderness of his grandmother's and it's too sweet. But Blaine resolves to make right his earlier lapse with Kurt. He shall find Kurt tonight at the dinner (it seems unreasonable to think Kurt won't be there) and apologize for his insincerity—and be sure to thank him properly.  
Blaine's brushing the crumbs from his hands when his data rig pings again with a priority message: Ambassador Dolloway wants everyone in a meeting in ten minutes.

.

"I'm afraid the news isn't good," the Ambassador says, once everyone is seated in the lounge area of her quarters. The fruit bowl is gone from the table, and a small holo-projector now sits in its place. She also had Blaine change the exterior wall to opaque, so there'll be no distractions. "We've received updated intelligence from the Defense and Trade Ministry on the Charn intrusion. Intrusion they're still calling it, but I believe this is becoming an invasion. See here?" She gestures at the miniature model of the Elyssian star systems hovering over the tabletop.

The worlds Elyssia has lost flare red; the ones in peril orange, and the ones nearest them, yellow. There are more red flares than Blaine understood to be the case. Elyssia had been reluctant to part with the information over distance communications. But now that they are here, they have access to Elyssia's latest reports and can see the true nature of the threat. The pattern of attacks in striking. It's not simply the Charn opportunistically picking off a few systems that border their territory, but a growing wedge pushing into Elyssian space.

"Where are the Elyssian naval fleets?" Blaine asks.

Hunter gives a subvocal command and the three Elyssian fleets blossom bright blue. They're spread far apart, and stationed behind the threatened worlds. They cannot provide support to each other. "But the Charn's main force is here," Hunter says, and their ten fleets, each of which Blaine knows is formed around a Charn Dreadnought, are positioned in adjacent systems, in a kind of wide ranging formation. Their strategy tends to be to leapfrog their forces: conquer, secure, move on to the next target—and there's always a rearguard.

"We've got reports of orbital bombardment. As you can well imagine, the casualty reports are staggering. Elyssia lost two hospital ships in an ambush yesterday. They were trying to evacuate survivors," the Ambassador says. "I understand the current orders to the navy are to evacuate worlds under threat, and not to engage the Charn fleet, which would be suicidal."

Blaine stares at the little red flares in the model, tries to imagine the magnitude of the loss, and his stomach goes queasy with it. "So," Blaine says, "the Elyssian Council still believes they can negotiate a peace?"

"They're prepared to offer several outer worlds along the border to the Charn in exchange for the cessation of aggression. But as you can see, that kind of deal is unlikely to placate whatever is driving the Charn to this invasion."

"It looks like genocide," Trent says softly.

"We should have an Apathean warship escorting us," Hunter says.

"No," the Ambassador says, "that would not only be rude to our hosts who have promised our safety—our journey to the Capitol won't be taking us anywhere near the front lines—but it would also alert the Charn to our interest and may provoke them prematurely. Further, as you well know, Major, even one of our warships would do more good at the front lines, than escorting the five of us, so it would be a slap in the face of our friends if we were to bring along one of our ships like some kind of ornament while we have not yet offered them substantive assistance in this fight."

"Are we friends?" Blaine asks. It isn't a word he's known the Ambassador to use lightly.

"Yes," the Ambassador says firmly, in the way that lets everyone know this is not a subject for debate. "My interest here is in finding a way to help our friends. At this point, I am only authorized to offer humanitarian aid, but, with this latest intelligence, I will strongly urge our government to reconsider the request for military aid. If Elyssia will accept it, and it is increasingly in their interest to do so."

"We haven't gone to war in over a century," Nick says. "And never for the sake of someone else."

"That's accurate," says the Ambassador. "But I didn't volunteer for this mission because it was going to be easy."

.

Several hours later, a dark skinned woman with a serene smile arrives to escort their delegation to the dinner reception. "I'm Mercedes," she tells them. "I work with Kurt." She wears a modest fitted gray suit not dissimilar to Sam's, and a string of cut crystals sparkles around her neck.

"Don't look so glum," the Ambassador whispers in Blaine's ear as they make their way down the hall. "Tonight, at least, is for friendship and celebration. We'll get to the hard things tomorrow."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"But I still expect detailed analysis of those latest reports from you in the morning."

"You'll have them," Blaine says. He's learned to operate well on little enough sleep.

.

The reception is— It's certainly not the obscene excess of which Nick has told tales, but it is far less somber than Blaine expects given the recent news. He has to remind himself that the knowledge he has is not widespread yet. Most of the people in the room won't know how bad it truly is.

Easy laughter ripples through the space. There are three floors in the reception hall with the upper floors open to the bottom most in a broad oval with wide glass staircases sweeping down and a transparent dome above showing the black of space. The glass of the staircases must be an illusion; but they appear precarious enough, Blaine keeps to the ground with the Ambassador, who is letting people come to her. Motes of light, like glitter caught in a sunbeam, float and swirl through the air and provide dispersed illumination. Blaine tries discreetly to capture one in his hand, but finds it has no substance. A projection of some kind?

The Ambassador has turned on her charm, warmth, and smiles to meet everyone who greets her. She listens attentively as Trent translates for her, and Blaine knows she'll remember the substance of every interaction. Meanwhile, between encounters, Blaine offers tidbits of relevant information as needed, tailored to whomever approaches. He reminds her of any intricacies of the current politics, so she knows how to best greet a person, what tact to take, enough details about their trade or profession or political leanings to continue a conversation and build rapport. There's no negotiation tonight. No talk of war or resources, just getting to know one another.

Blaine takes what opportunities he can to look for Kurt in the crowd around and above him. The Elyssian are a colorful crowd in fine clothes of so many textures and patterns in so many daring styles, it's disorienting. There are a few, however, dressed in plain and modest gray. It's not a uniform as far as Blaine can discern. He wonders at the significance.

While they all wait for dinner to be called, wait staff weave among the gathering offering a drink that's pink and sparkling and served in tall flared glasses. It smells of roses and has a mild bittersweet taste that seems to grow sweeter as it lingers on the tongue. Blaine gets reassurance that it contains no alcohol. "Not tonight, anyway," says the girl holding the tray, and then she winks at him. He doesn't see Kurt.

Eventually though, the energy calms, people move from group to group with less frequency, and settle into conversation. The Ambassador finds a seat on a curved sofa where she sits with a couple who work in the government archives. Trent translates less as the Ambassador seems inclined to speak for herself, which is not that much of a risk in an informal setting. The topic at hand is recent history, and the Ambassador is curious. Blaine stands beside her and listens distractedly as he continues his survey of the room.

He sees Hunter and Nick keeping close together and in conversation with Captain Dupont and another man in the same uniform. They appear relaxed. Blaine tips his head back to look up at the dome and the dance of the glittery motes of light. And that's when he sees Kurt, on the balcony two floors above him, wearing black in stark contrast with the colors of his fellows, and leaning on the balustrade looking directly back at Blaine. It sends a strange shiver up Blaine's spine, and Blaine blinks and redirects his attention to the Ambassador, bending near to make sure he doesn't miss anything.

"Blaine," the Ambassador says, in the tone that means an instruction is coming.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"You're beginning to hover," she says.

"Oh."

"Go mingle."

With a self-conscious laugh, Blaine goes.

He makes an effort at mingling. He checks in with Hunter and Nick, and makes some small talk with the Captain, says his hello's to a few of the people he's met tonight. But he remembers his intention to find Kurt to apologize and thank him. He approaches the glass stairs with some trepidation and plenty of determination. They do, despite the look of them, provide traction beneath his feet, and he goes up, only to see Kurt coming down the next flight toward him. It feels like gravity somehow, as if no matter what Blaine had intended tonight, he will end up speaking to Kurt. The element of compulsion is nearly enough to make Blaine turn and leave until he regains his composure. But Blaine acknowledges his sudden reluctance is no more rational than the bizarre sense of inevitability. Speaking with Kurt is part of his duty. And so he goes.

Standing at the base of the stairs, Kurt watches Blaine come to him. He's tall and lean in a close-fitting black velvet suit over a shimmery lavender shirt. His upswept hair has caught some of the lights and gleams brightly. Their eyes meet, Kurt smiles, and Blaine steels himself to be unsettled. He picks up a fresh glass from a waiter as he approaches. Watches Kurt's  
smile curl up at the corner in satisfaction. Blaine shakes his head.

"Hello, Blaine," Kurt says. His voice is light, warm and familiar using just his first name. It doesn't sound like he's holding a grudge.

"You were watching me," Blaine says.

"I was," Kurt says. "I have to be sure you're enjoying yourselves. Were you looking for me?"

"Yes," Blaine says. "I wanted to thank you for the… treats, and apologize for being less than forthright before about my discomfort."

Kurt waves off the apology. "That was my mistake," he says. "But if you enjoyed them, that's all the thanks I desire."

"All right," Blaine says. He expected this to be more difficult, and now he's left with no back up plan to continue the interaction. (And he does very much wish for it to continue.)

"Dinner isn't far away," Kurt says. "The menu I've selected is based on the cuisine currently in fashion in the Capitol. I hope you'll enjoy it."

"So long as it's not live maggots," Blaine says and offers a grin. "The Hestari don't cater well to a human palate."

Kurt's eyes widen. "Live maggots?"

"I understand they're very nutritious, but we could never quite manage them live," Blaine says.

"I should hope not," Kurt says, grimacing in distaste. "You won't have that problem here. In deference to the Ambassador, we won't be serving animals tonight, living, dead, or otherwise, so you're safe from that."

"That's very thoughtful," Blaine says. "Thank you."

"Believe it or not, I'm usually good at my job," Kurt says. "I regret upsetting you earlier. It wasn't the best start."

"Our cultures are different enough," Blaine says.

"Perhaps," Kurt says. "But we read many of the same books as school children, don't we? Shakespeare and Sun Tzu and the other ancients."

"Do we?" Blaine asks, sincere in the question. He's never heard of such a thing, had always assumed the similarities between the Apathean and Elyssia were surface—some kind of convergent evolution. But before he can better articulate his question, Kurt speaks again.

"Are you honestly surprised?" Kurt asks. "Did you think we were a backwater of some sort just because we—"

The chimes for dinner ring, a harmonic cascade that brings the room to silence.

"Please excuse me, Blaine. I must go attend to the kitchen staff," Kurt says, and then he reaches out and lays his hand warm upon Blaine's forearm. "Would you like to continue our conversation after dinner? I'd love to show you the Garden."

"I—" Blaine begins. He does a quick mental catalog of the work he needs to do tonight. He'll find a way to manage. "Yes, please," he says. "I'd enjoy that."

"Wonderful," Kurt says, he bites into his widening smile and tilts his head. "I find I like it when you say yes. I'll look for you later, then?"

"I'll aim to be found," Blaine says. He takes a moment to simply watch Kurt go, and he wonders at how the disturbance deep in his belly manages to be something so pleasant.


	4. Chapter 4

At dinner, Blaine finds himself engaged in conversation with the young woman seated to his left at the round table he shares with four others. Her smile is infectious as she introduces herself to him with a warm clasp of both hands around his offered one. "Miss Tina Cohen-Chang," she says, in a manner that gives Blaine the impression she's accustomed to people recognizing her name. Blaine refrains from deploying his eyepiece to check the significance. He'll just have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Tina has traveled from Lima, one of the planets on the fringe of the region in Elyssian space still considered the inner worlds. It's primarily agrarian, with the dominant crops grown there grapes, olives, and various other fruit trees and flowers. Wine-making is the largest sector of the economy, and Tina's father is a vintner—and apparently a well-established one at that.

"He provides the majority of the wine for the Bacchanalia celebrations in the Capital," she explains with pride. Blaine remembers the holiday from his briefing documents. It occurs five times a year, marked by the movements of Elyssia's twin moons, lasting for three days and three nights. It is, from what he understands, a celebration of embodied pleasures and a throwing over of inhibitions. Nick had some stories, of drunken naked feasts that would spill onto the streets and result in all manner of public misbehavior, but he admitted he'd never been invited to attend one. Off-worlders rarely were, he'd said. Not that he'd wanted to go, anyway.

Lima, as it turns out, is among the planets in line for possible evacuation, and she has come on this trip to help represent the interests of Lima and its citizenry. "You know how much the farmers and vintners are going to want to abandon their land," she says. "Their work can't be moved or evacuated. Some of the vineyards and orchards are centuries of years old. They're irreplaceable. The economic damage combined with the cultural loss, the damage to our heritage? It's unthinkable."

The meal is a deluge of flavor, color, and texture: five courses presented with such artistry on the plate, Blaine hesitates to take his fork to it. First is a bizarrely small offering: a single mouthful of slender sprouts intricately woven around a succulent round of pink fruit. Looking at it, Blaine can't reconcile the time it must have taken to create but one small bite. Then he samples it and finds at the center of the bitter greens and sweet melon a sharp creamy cheese. The flavors combine so unexpectedly and intensely, for an instant Blaine wishes for an entire plate.

"Do you like it?" Tina asks.

Flush with his unexpected enjoyment, Blaine returns her smile. "Yes."

A light soup follows, filament thin noodles in a clear aromatic broth. Then something more substantial: spears of a pungent-sweet fern like vegetable doused in a rich herbed sauce. Blaine can identify none of the flavors or ingredients, but he accepts an offered bread roll to wipe up the sauce so as to not miss a bite.

"Do you eat like this all the time?" he asks Tina. He's accustomed to a simpler evening meal of steamed grain, a thick soup or stew, and a small salad of fruit—usually macerated unless he's on planet and fresh is available.

"As often as I can," she replies.

The main dish is an exquisitely layered pastry filled with a generously seasoned mousse-like pâté. It bears the slightest resemblance to a mushroom pie his mother used to make on winter weekends. But this dish is both more savory and complex. There're flecks of green herb, the occasional nugget of some ground nut, and a garnet red sauce on the side that's bright and tart to contrast with the earthy unctuous flavours of the pastry.

When dessert is served at the last, it takes Blaine some time to fortify his appetite and break through the intricately constructed, multicolored sugar crust that tops a dense vanilla-honey custard strewn with pale violet petals. It's like an edible tapestry, each dessert at the table depicts a different highly-detailed flower or butterfly.

"It looks like Kurt managed to persuade Chef Kiya and her team to come do meals after all," Tina remarks. "That's quite a coup for the Councilor," she adds as she delicately taps her spoon around the perimeter of the sugary art piece. "Kiya used to cook for the Minister of Public Arts, one of Isabelle's political rivals. These custards are her signature piece."

Blaine blinks at Tina. "You know Kurt?"

"Of course I do. We grew up together on Lima," Tina says. "His father is one of our planet's representatives in the senate and among the Councilor's strongest supporters in taking a more active policy against the Charn Intrusion. Five years of failed diplomacy has only resulted in lies, escalation, and more civilian deaths. We need to put a stop to it, don't you agree?"

"I didn't realize they were related," Blaine says, avoiding answering her question directly. It's not his place to have an opinion of his own let along voice it. And he silently admonishes himself for not having done his own preparations more thoroughly. How was he to anticipate this? Hospitality is hardly an art form in Apathean society, not in the way it seems to be here. Apparently Kurt has some status of his own as well, not only socially but also politically. He'll need to make an appointment with Nick to find out what other nuance he may have underestimated.

"Will any of your delegation be coming to the dance tonight?" Tina asks, and her eyes are bright and piercing as they meet his. She rests her hand on the table near Blaine's wrist.

"I— I don't know," Blaine says. Dance implies music, and music is rarely indulged outside ceremony on Apathea. But music is also something he enjoys whenever the opportunity arises. But neither the Ambassador nor Kurt has mentioned such a thing as part of their itinerary, so Blaine doubts he'll attend. After Kurt's tour of the Garden, he'll need to get onto those reports. "It's more likely we'll be working late tonight."

.

Blaine lingers on at the table after the dessert dishes are cleared and people begin leaving. Elliott has taken up the empty seat beside Blaine and drinks some amber hued liquid in a short, squat glass. Blaine drinks water. They're discussing, along with Tina, the impediments to the Councilor's communications strategy. Tina has strong opinions about what needs to be done to convince the population, but Elliott, with warmth and good humor, explains—in part for Blaine's benefit—that the Elyssian people require more gentle persuasion, the appeal needs to be to their sense of morality more than their reason (Blaine wonders how those two things can be distinct), and that it tends to work better if you let people think they've made up their own minds.

But he acknowledges challenges. "Most Elyssians, especially in the highly urbanized inner worlds, feel little kinship with those in the outer worlds. And, of course, our people don't like bad news to the point of avoidance. Most in the cities would prefer to spend their evenings in the theater, gardens, or at dances, not watching political debates or news reports of distant violence."

"It's less distant than it was," Tina says sharply. "They should care—they need to. They'll have to care when they run out of wine, but by then, it will be too late!"

Blaine just listens.

In the conversational lulls, Blaine glances about for Kurt, but as was the case at the reception, he doesn't see him, just the few people still sitting at tables in conversation and a few staff discreetly clearing dishes. The Ambassador has left, said she would be retiring early, so Blaine is on his own recognizance for the evening. He remains aware of his responsibilities, but talking with Elliott and Tina is enlightening enough, he considers this preparation.

Still, he's eager for Kurt's company again, eager to see the Garden. But half an hour passes, and Tina stands and stretches. "I'll hope to see you later tonight, Blaine. But if not, I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other on the trip to the capital. It's been a pleasure." She extends one hand to him, palm down. He's unsure what the gesture signifies—it's not one he was briefed on—but he takes her hand loosely and says a simple farewell to her, "Enjoy your evening."

And then to Elliott, who is watching him with a curious sort of smile, he asks, "Have you seen Kurt? I was meant to meet him after dinner. He was going to give me a tour of the Garden?"

Elliott's eyebrows rise. "Tonight? Was he?"

"Is that… strange?" Blaine asks.

"Not at all," Elliott says. "But I'd say you've made quite an impression with him. A good one."  
Blaine smiles at that. "He said he'd find me after dinner, but I have responsibilities I must attend to tonight as well. I don't know how long I can reasonably wait for him."

"Knowing Kurt, he'll be putting out some fires in the kitchen—"

"Fires?"

"Figuratively speaking only," Elliott says with a laugh. "Neither the appetizers nor the soup were up to his standards, and there'll be hell to pay in there."

"Oh," Blaine says. "I thought everything was wonderful. I'm confident the Ambassador won't have found fault with anything."

"That won't matter to him," Elliott says. "He's very strict. Someone's going to lose their position tonight, I'd say."

Blaine nods and looks around the room again.

"You like him, don't you?" Elliott asks, and there's a note of something in his voice. It's unexpectedly affectionate.

It makes Blaine flush with a warmth he doesn't understand—almost as if he's been found out doing something he's not meant to, except he can't think of anything wrong with liking a person. "I suppose? I don't know him very well," Blaine says.

"But you'd like to know him well." Elliott presses. He leans back in his chair, stretches his legs, and gives Blaine an evaluating look.

"Well, yes, as part of these negotiations, it's best that we all get to know each other, don't you think? We're all friends today, aren't we?"

Elliott laughs. "We are at that." Then he cocks his head in thought. "You know. If you want to go do whatever you need to do, I'll make sure to tell Kurt you waited as long as you could. He'll be at the dance tonight, if you wanted to come along later. It starts at midnight. He would be happy to see you there, I'm sure."

"Tina mentioned there's a dance tonight, but it isn't on our itinerary."

"There's a dance every night," Elliott says. "And, no, it wouldn't be on your itinerary," Elliott says. "But, you know, think about it. If you want to get to know us better—you might even enjoy yourself." Elliott gives him a wink and a broader smile. "How does the saying go? ‘All work and no play probably means you're an Apathean citizen'?"

And Blaine has to laugh then, too. He hasn't heard it before, but it's accurate enough. "If I have time," Blaine says. "I'll consider it."

"Invite your friends," Elliott suggests.

.

Back in the guest wing, Blaine is in Trent and Nick's shared quarters. "No, Blaine," Nick is saying. "You don't want to go to one of these dances."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one there's alcohol," Nick says, shoving a hand through his shaggy bangs. Trent sits nervously nearby on the sofa. Their exterior window is opaque but for two small, round portholes.

"I don't plan on drinking any of it," Blaine says.

"But they will be, and being around people who are drinking is just… Trust me, it's not a good time. And then there's the music, and the way they dance and dress and the things they do in plain view of everyone. Really Blaine, it's degenerate."

With a frown, Blaine says nothing. He thinks a cultural attache should be less judgmental of the culture to which they claim affiliation and expertise. He's still not sure why the Ambassador tapped Nick to come along. He turns to Trent. "Would you come with me, then?"

Trent shakes his head. "As interesting as it sounds, Blaine—and I'm genuinely curious. Not tonight. It's been a long day."

There's no point disturbing Hunter to ask him. Military types tend to be very singular in their duty. "If I decide to go, then I'll go alone," Blaine says. "I'm not afraid of a party."

But the truth is, he is a little bit afraid, has no idea what to expect. The words he hears applied to Elyssian mores tend to be unspecific. Words like excessive and indulgent and degenerate don't tell him enough for him to prepare himself. Everyone he's met has been pleasant enough, how bad can it be? If he gets his work done in a timely manner, he'll consider it more seriously. First, he needs to get that analysis done.

.

Several hours later, the last thing on Blaine's mind is worries about cultural and moral differences. The Charn intrusion has been slow and methodical—and utterly unopposed by anything but continued, good-faith attempts at diplomacy. The Elyssian politicians must not read their history. Apathea's longest, bloodiest war was with the Charn, two hundred years ago. It's the reason for the maintenance of a disproportionately powerful and well-trained military that rarely fights now. Only by maintaining the strongest possible defense will the Charn let their border be.

Diplomacy has never worked as far as Blaine can tell. There's no common ground to find. The Charn are ponderous and taciturn, barely seem to even register attempts at communication from other races. They execute their goals with the single-minded focus of a glacier carving up mountains, and the violence they wreak? An aspect of it is nearly mindless. They have as much empathy and concern for those they invade as many humans do for the animals they eat. And who knows what it is they want from Elyssia? For all Blaine can guess, the Charn believe they're clearing out an infestation of pests from perfectly good planets.

And now that Blaine knows about Lima, has met Tina, and knows this is also Kurt's home—Kurt's family's home—it's harder to look at the reports with its name on the list of threatened planets which may require evacuation within the next eighteen months. The level of professional dispassion Blaine aims to cultivate is disturbed. Sentiment clouds reason, and he needs to approach this with a clear mind.

He manages to finish up his summary and analysis. He lists potential options and the opportunities he sees, but makes no recommendations. He does, however, tailor some of the language for those who may read this back home, the people the Ambassador needs to persuade to reconsider sending Apathean ships to fight. (And he thinks about what Elliott said about appeals to morality rather than reason, and he wonders.) He's well aware of how much help just one of their tactical AI's installed on the latest Apathean battleship would be, if only to cover the evacuations of refugees or guard hospital ships. He looks forward to seeing Hunter's strategic analysis in the morning.

For now, Blaine needs to rest. He goes into the bathroom and doesn't even look at the bathing tub. He just strips off his uniform, dumps it in the receptacle for soiled laundry, and gets in the shower. It's not the pressure showers he's used to, but the rain of water from the wide head is heavy and hot, and that's all he requires to get clean. It does little for his mind.

Blaine dresses in his pajamas and goes to the window by the bed. The solar sails billow and shimmer as the ship navigates her way through the star system they're currently in. Two planets make bright dots in the sky, one greenish, the other orange. Both are inhabited. Tomorrow they'll be far enough out the ship can deploy its warp field.

He sits on the edge of the bed and closes his eyes. The surface of the bedspread is silky beneath his fingers. He breathes, counting his breaths in fives, trying to let the thoughts break free of their hold on his mind. Images of destruction intrude—some from reports, some formed by his own imagination. His mind seems determined in its cycling of images, thoughts, and impressions: the death toll in the outer worlds, Kurt and Tina's homes and families. Then, somehow, it's just Kurt, shining and smiling and looking at Blaine like they have a secret in common. He retains the sense memory of Kurt's hand on his arm. It seems a fragile and valuable thing.

When he opens his eyes, they're wet. Blaine blinks back the moisture, and he reconsiders his evening's plans. Sleep will elude him, he knows, so he reconsiders the dance. Music and movement and Kurt may be there. Perhaps he can find Kurt and they can go to the Garden and talk.

It's well after midnight when Blaine dresses again, this time not in his uniform, but in casual slacks, shirt, and jacket. He combs his hair and double checks the directions to the ballroom. Then, with the flutter of both apprehension and anticipation in his stomach, he goes.


	5. Chapter 5

Outside the guest wing, the corridors are less bright, dimmed for the nighttime. More people move and loiter within them though. Blaine receives a few long looks and outright stares, but he does his best not to return the scrutiny. The manner of dress has—as Nick would say—degenerated. Men and women expose more bare skin, and colorful, sheer fabrics cling to bodies to accentuate the form beneath. Chatter is bright and quick—too fast for Blaine to follow. Pairs and trios hold onto each others arms and waists and press their faces to each others shoulders and necks. Some carry stemmed glasses with wine and other beverages. As he nears the ballroom, Blaine even glimpses a couple, tucked into an alcove, kissing, and the woman's hand has slipped beneath the waistband of her partner's pants to touch his backside.

If Blaine's heart beats faster—if his skin flushes with warmth, and some strange new sensation seethes and twists deep in his belly to pulse even lower, he won't let it stop him. He's not afraid.

The high double doors into the ballroom sparkle with blooming bursts of light; it reminds Blaine of the fireworks he once saw, when he attended the launch of their newest warship with the Ambassador last year. The light had scattered over the shining hull of the _A.D.F.S. Medusa_ like a scatter of igniting stars. Blaine uses the memory to fortify himself, and the doors slide open for him as he approaches.

It's like walking into a towering wave of motion, light, and sound. He stands for a moment, absorbing the shock of it. Expected, yes, but still a lot of stimulation to incorporate. Still, Blaine feels dizzy as he steps forward. The music throbs like a heartbeat. He scans the rhythm of the crowd for any familiar face, but finds none. He moves toward the edge of the room rather than into the sea of dancing bodies. He keeps his gaze high, upon faces, but he sees enough in the riot of movement in his peripheral vision: bared arms and legs and torsos shining with sweat, hands gliding over bodies, round breasts and peaked nipples, muscular buttocks and strong thighs, faces contorted in expressions of emotion Blaine doesn't recognize. Is this what being drunk looks like? As unnerving as it is to see people caught up in any extreme of sensation, something about it—the lack of self-consciousness, perhaps—is beautiful in its own way.

Blaine looks for somewhere to sit and then he hears his name, barely audible over the noise, but clear. He turns and sees Tina, grinning at him as she approaches. She takes him by the upper arm and leans in close as she speaks, "Blaine!" she says again. "You're here! How wonderful."

Her hair is pulled up away from her face and piled atop her head in a network of intricate loops and braids. She wears dark blue brocade, burgundy lipstick, and black eyeliner. Her dress is a brief pleated skirt and a sleeveless, low-cut top that's buckled tightly around her waist, from her hips up to her breasts, with several wide straps that only serve to push the naked tops of her breasts up into prominence. Blaine can't help but look down at them. He's never seen this much bare skin on a woman so close.

"So… do you like what you see?" Tina asks playfully, swaying even closer to him.

"I'm, uh." Blaine looks back up. "I'm relieved to see a familiar face," he says and takes a step back; she's too near.

"May I get you a drink?" Tina asks. She lifts the glass in her hand. It's fogged with condensation and full of a pale liquid. They're serving some of my father's wines tonight. This one is very crisp and refreshing."

"Thank you, but no," Blaine says. "I wonder if you can help me though—have you seen Kurt?"  
Tina frowns and glances about cursorily. "Kurt? You're looking for him?"

"Yes," Blaine says. "We were meant to meet after dinner, but he was detained. He'd mentioned giving me a tour of the Garden tonight. Elliott said I could probably find him here later, at the dance."

"Oh," Tina says, and her expression falls into disappointment. She steps back then too. "So do you prefer men?" she asks and sighs. "My usual luck."

It's not an answer to his question, and he's not even sure what she's talking about. "I was hoping to find Kurt," he says, redundantly.

"Right," she says, "Well, he'll be performing with Elliott if he's here."

"Performing?"

"They sometimes sing together at these things. They're actually really good."

"Oh, I enjoy live music," Blaine says.

Tina laughs, and then she looks at him critically. "And look, Blaine," she says. "If you're wanting to get anywhere with Kurt tonight, you should probably lose the jacket and, um," she reaches toward his collar; her hands hover for an instant, and Blaine keeps still, unsure what her aim is. She finds the magnetic snap at his throat. "Loosen up your shirt a little." She pulls the snap apart—and the one below it. The air feels strangely intimate on his skin as she tugs his collar open and smooths the fabric across his collarbones.

He slips off his jacket, too, at her repeated prompting, and feels even more exposed without the weight of it; it's just the thinner fabric of his shirt between himself and the air. He folds it over his arm for a lack of anywhere else to put it.

"That's better," Tina says. "You still look overdressed, but at least you don't look entirely like a chaste case."

It's not a phrase Blaine knows, but before he has a chance to ask Tina, the lights go out and the music stops.

"Here we go," Tina says.

It begins with a slower, deeper beat and a cascade of splintering light breaking from the high ceiling and falling down in spiraling filaments of gold, blue, and white. Then, a brilliant flash, magnesium bright and blinding, and the music speeds, electric strings scream and soar, and Blaine blinks until he can make out two silhouettes on either end of a raised platform in the center of the room. Some whoops of enthusiasm break from the crowd.

A voice carves into the spaces between the instruments, raw and powerful. The afterimage of the flash abates and Blaine sees that it's Elliott, clad in shiny black, facing Kurt who wears a sheer white lace t-shirt and silver pants—and it looks like his clinging pants are made of mercury, they gleam mirror-like and appear so flexible and fluid around the length of his legs as he strides toward Elliott, with a swivel of his hips and a beckoning cock of his head—and then Kurt opens his mouth to join him in song. His voice is smooth and pure, light and clear, rising over the goosebump raising texture of Elliott's. Blaine's never heard anything like either of them.

Nor has he seen anything like them. They face each other with an intensity that makes it seem they're the only two people in the room. Then Elliott hooks a hand around Kurt's waist and draws him closer, and Kurt's shoulders drop back as his spine arches—he bends like a sapling in a breeze, even as he steps closer, leading with his hips and straddling Elliott's thigh. Kurt drags his pelvis up slowly with a sinuous flex of his spine until they're pressed together just there, at their groins, in a manner so brazen, Blaine forces himself to look away. He looks down at the floor, watches the darker patterns of reflected illumination ripple under his boots. Heat and unfamiliar emotion rise in his throat and flood his mind, and perspiration begins to stick his shirt to his skin.

Nick was right, maybe he shouldn't have come. He shouldn't be here; he shouldn't be seeing any of this. Some other emotion threatens to close his throat with the colder grasp of humiliation. He doesn't understand it well enough to banish it easily. He came expecting— What did he expect? Kurt's attention? Kurt's interest? Something beyond the bounds of their professional dealings and the natural curiosity of his job? What was he hoping to achieve here? Friendship? What did he hope to discover? Nick had warned him, and he came anyway. He nods to himself. This is a distraction; he'll go back to his room and meditate until he's clear-minded and focused fully on the start of negotiations tomorrow.

But then beside him Tina groans softly near his ear. "They're so gorgeous, aren't they?" she says to him, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. Her hand presses against his back. "Look at them."

The way she says it, and the urge of her unexpected touch, Blaine looks back up to the stage before he can stop himself. And there his gaze arrests. Kurt has turned in Elliott's arms, is pressed back against the length of him, his head tossed against Elliott's shoulder as he sings. Elliott's hands are both on him: one splayed across his chest, rubbing possessively across his pecs. The darker ovals of Kurt's nipples are clearly visible beneath the stage lights and the gauzy white lace. Elliott's other hand slides lower as Blaine watches, pressing down the center of Kurt's belly and over the low waist of his pants, down even further to cup him between his legs. Kurt closes his eyes and rolls his hips forward into that touch, and the music climbs to a crescendo along with their voices.

Gorgeous, yes, and Blaine can't look away.

"You should have seen them at the Bacchanalia two springs ago." Tina murmurs close to his ear, and the tickle of her breath against his neck makes him shiver. "They'd just gotten together, and it was breathtaking to see them."

He can believe that; he can't seem to take a full breath right now. But he finds enough air to say, "I should go."

"Why?" Tina asks. And before he can respond, she says, "Come on." She takes his hand and pulls him forward with her as she moves into the crowd. Blaine stumbles to keep up and not bump into too many people on the way.

A spray of sparks erupts from the perimeter of the stage as the music finally soars to its final note. Elliott twists and turns Kurt, dipping him back and laying a kiss full on his mouth. Then they break apart, straighten, and raise their joined hands to receive the applause of the audience. Kurt's expression is radiant as he stretches his arms over his head. They bow together, and then step forward off the stage. Soon, the previous music resumes.

"Kurt!" Tina calls out with her other hand raised to catch his attention, and Blaine is impressed at the volume she summons.

"Tina!" Kurt calls back with a wave, and then he's pushing through the crowd toward them and dragging his fingers through his hair, which is damp and drooping with sweat. Then he sees Blaine, and his smile widens into delight. His eyes are wide and keen, and his pale cheeks flushed pink. He looks lovely. "Blaine?" he says and comes closer. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Tina lets go of Blaine's hand and takes his jacket from his arm. "I invited him to come along at dinner," she says.

"I'm so glad you did, I'm sorry for missing you earlier. Elliott explained." Kurt says and his attention is so fixed upon Blaine, it's almost palpable. "Please, dance with me?" Kurt offers a hand, palm up.

The word 'no' suddenly doesn't even exist in Blaine's vocabulary. Thoughts of reminding Kurt of the proposed Garden tour, thoughts of asking Kurt if they can go somewhere else to talk vanish. Blaine hasn't danced with anyone since his school days. It's another activity rarely pursued in public in adult life, but it's one he enjoyed and at which he excelled as a child. He wants so badly to reach out and take Kurt's hand, wants so much to say yes to Kurt, even if he's not supposed to—even if it's a distraction. So he does. "Yes, I think I'd enjoy that," Blaine says.

"I'll make sure you do," Kurt replies with a quirk of an eyebrow. Then his fingers are closing around Blaine's and he's drawing Blaine into his personal space. His other hand settles at Blaine's waist, the heat of his palm and the pressure of his fingers is vivid, like a brand through the fabric of Blaine's shirt. Kurt guides Blaine into an easy rhythm and swaying step, nothing too complicated.

But one thing nags at the back of Blaine's mind, even though he knows things are different here. "Are you sure this is appropriate?" Blaine asks. Where he comes from, only married couples dance together as adults, and generally it's a fairly private affair—at a wedding, with their family, though he understands well enough, too, that Elyssia has more liberal ideas about privacy. He remembers his parents dancing together on their anniversaries with fondness.

"Hmm? We're both off duty, aren't we? We can indulge ourselves tonight and still be professional in the morning."

"Not that," Blaine says, for he trusts himself to maintain his professional decorum, and how 

Kurt does his job is up to Kurt. "But I didn't know you were married."

Kurt gives him a confused look. "Married? I'm not."

"You and Elliott—"

Understanding widens Kurt's eyes. "He's a friend. A close friend. We perform together, and we're lovers on occasion, but we're not exclusive. Why would you assume we were married?"

There's too much in the sentence Blaine's uncertain of, so he just answers the last question Kurt puts to him. "The way he was touching you on stage? Tina said you were together."

"Oh, we were together, for about a year, but that's past, so please don't worry." Kurt smiles in a more promising and hazier sort of way and shifts closer until Blaine has to move his hands over Kurt's shoulders lest they become trapped between them. The sheer lace of Kurt's t-shirt is so fine and soft it's barely perceptible to Blaine's touch. He can feel the silky texture of Kurt's skin more clearly, the slight dampness of perspiration, the heat and shape of his body. He holds Kurt loosely as their bodies brush together, and Kurt bends his head near enough Blaine feels his breath on his lips and Kurt's hair tickles against his forehead. "I'd rather focus on you, now that you're here." They never danced like this at school.

It sends a rush of fresh heat to simmer beneath Blaine's skin, and his head goes muzzy with it. The flutter and shift in his belly sharpens and spikes a rush of inchoate wanting; it floods a heaviness to his groin that he hasn't experienced since the onset of puberty. The whimper that surges up his throat barely passes his lips before Kurt's leaning in even closer, angling his head to press his mouth to Blaine's jaw and his hands are sliding around to the small of Blaine's back, to pull him close enough that Blaine feels it: even through their clothing, Kurt's penis is an unmistakeable hard ridge pressing into his hip, and he's aware of his own rebellious flesh, stiffening in sympathetic response.

Sometimes Blaine dreams of drowning. In times of stress, it's one that recurs. It's puzzled him  
though, because it's not a nightmare. In the dream he's never in pain, never truly afraid. 

Instead it's a flood of bliss and longing that surges up and covers him as he drifts down into soothing darkness. He struggles toward the surface at first, because he's meant to. But his struggles have little will behind them, and soon he gives up, the light above him dwindles, and he lets go. Sinks. This—dancing with Kurt—feels like that, for he's overwhelmed, his rational mind sluggish and feeble as the thread of sensation of Kurt's lips on his skin tangles with the urgent responses of their bodies. Held and pressed against Kurt in a such shockingly intimate embrace, the pull of desire is deep and dark, and it threatens his reason.

He could let go. He could let Kurt guide him down toward whatever his body is hungering for. The friction between them is something delectable and tempting to pursue, and it feels like it's building toward something even better. Each grinding shift of their bodies together in the music increases the pleasure of the next pass.

But Blaine's got enough of his wits to also understand this remains—for him—an embrace for spouses to share, preferably in private. And even though Blaine's body is telling him it wants this very much, he blinks his eyes open and lifts his head to look around. He see's how unprivate this is, how other people are looking at him—how Tina is still nearby, dancing with Elliott and looking at him (she smiles encouragement)—and his awareness skews into a sudden flash of embarrassment to clear his head. He's not a person to behave so carelessly. This isn't why he came; it's not what his intention was in finding Kurt. They were to continue their conversation and see the Garden, he reminds himself. This is… This not a conversation.

"Kurt," he says. "Wait. Please?"


	6. Chapter 6

Kurt pulls back, and looks at Blaine with curiosity in his heavily lidded gaze. "Hmm?"

"I…" Blaine starts, has to take a deep breath, because Kurt's still holding him so closely, still rocking them together with the music, still making heat and sensation and yearning surge in Blaine's blood. Kurt's hand strokes gently at the base of Blaine's spine as if to soothe, and that feels even more intimate than the press of their hips together.

"I need some air," Blaine says, pushing back against Kurt gently, giving enough resistance to communicate his requirement for space. "Please? Will you excuse me?"

"Yes, of course," Kurt says, and he releases his hold on Blaine, but his eyes cloud with confusion and worry. He touches Blaine's temple lightly, as if checking for a fever. "Are you all right?"

"I'm a little dizzy," Blaine says, "I'm going to step outside." He doesn't wait for Kurt's reply, just moves away, forcing his way through the crowd toward the doors on legs that feel brand new.

Once out of the ballroom, the riot in Blaine's mind eases with the quiet and the expanding sense of space. He walks with more strength down the curved length of the corridor, only dazedly registering the other people he passes. It's so much cooler out here, too. He can't quite think clearly though. He keeps starting on a thought only for his mind to skip, stutter, and fail. His blood still buzzes with an alien hunger—his whole body aches with it, and the dull throb in his genitals nags at him.

He doesn't have any blocker with him. Hasn't needed it since he graduated and stopped taking it regularly. Meditation has been enough to smooth over any unwanted urges. Unwanted? He chuckles softly at himself.

It's such a strange concept here now, because part of him does seem to want it. But the rest of him? He can't tell if it's fear or indignation or embarrassment. (At the feeling itself? Or of not understanding enough of anything to have expected this turn? The briefing reports are all so frustratingly vague. People mince around the topic with euphemisms and lack of detail. 

It's one thing for these bodily urges to be socially taboo among Apathean society, but it's something altogether different and—potentially—damaging to withhold essential information from the professional people who require it.

Blaine refuses to consider that perhaps this particular context is not altogether professional, not strictly speaking. But regardless, he needs enough information to engage with a culture in his down time and not humiliate himself in the process.

(And, by the gods, he's so unbelievably far from any sense of internal equilibrium, his skin feels too small and his brain too hot and his body so uncomfortably needful and discontent. How does a person find relief for this manner of disturbance? Will it fade on its own? Does he just walk it off?)

"Blaine?" it's Kurt's voice behind him. "Hey, slow down, will you, please?"

It's only then that Blaine realizes how quickly he's walking. He slows and stops, turns back to see Kurt coming up to him at an easy jog. "Your jacket," Kurt says, holding it up. "And… I wasn't sure if you were coming back?" Apologetic concern registers on Kurt's lovely face. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Thank you," Blaine says, and he takes his jacket from Kurt without looking him in the eye. He shakes out the folds, and slips the jacket on. It settles on his shoulders with the exact weight he needs. He exhales. Then he fastens the snaps at the top of his shirt while Kurt watches him.

"Are you feeling all right?" Kurt says.

Blaine chooses honesty. He shakes his head. "No, not really."

"Is it time lag or the food? I hope it's not the food. I can take you to the medic if you need—"

"I'm not sick. I'm just…" He gestures at himself with one hand, and looks up at Kurt, hoping for his understanding.

"You're just?" A crooked smile appears on Kurt's face. "I can't tell if that's an idiom that's not translating well or if you're avoiding answering me."

"Is there somewhere else we can go? To talk privately?"

An unexpected kindness infuses both Kurt's demeanor and his voice. "Yes, Blaine, of course we can." Kurt glances up the corridor with pursed lips. "I know just the place."

They take a lift up several decks, and Blaine follows Kurt along a hall that is abandoned at this late hour. "Few people make use of this observation room at night," Kurt says and extends a hand toward a smoky glass door, and Blaine goes in. Inside it's cool bordering on cold, dark, and completely silent. Blaine can't even hear the soft background thrum of the ship's idling engines. Starlight surrounds them, pale and silver, and Blaine realizes they're in a raised dome atop the ship, set higher even than the bridge. None of the ship's hull is visible, and—with the dark floor beneath them—the illusion is strong that they are standing in the void of space.

"Here" Kurt says and waves toward a piece of furniture hunkering in the low light as little more than a shadow. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

As his eyes adjust to the gloom, Blaine makes out a broad low couch. It's like two long lounge chairs have been fused facing each other. It's clearly designed for two people to sit at ease, facing one another, with their legs sharing the wide middle of the seat.

"You'll find blankets on the couch if you're cold. I'm going to order some refreshments for us, and then I'll join you," Kurt says.

Blaine settles himself at one end of the couch and finds a soft throw to pull over his legs. He arranges the cushions behind himself and tries to find a comfortable way to sit that's neither too slouching nor too stiff. The design of the couch makes it a challenge, and he's not certain he finds a reasonable compromise, but he does make himself comfortable enough.

After spending some time tapping at a panel summoned on the wall, Kurt comes and sits opposite him. In the dark, Kurt is luminous in silver and white, and his eyes are dark gleaming shadows fixed upon Blaine expectantly. "Now we may speak comfortably," Kurt says. "Would you like to tell me what's troubling you tonight?"

Blaine takes a moment to rehearse the words before he speaks them, to make sure he's speaking the truth to Kurt. That seems important, and more than that, he wants to. He wants to shift the strange weight from his heart into words, rather than simply internalizing it to deconstruct it later and convince himself it doesn't matter the way he knows it does. He takes a breath, relaxes his shoulders and throat, and speaks: "I realized I maybe shouldn't have come to the dance. I was curious, but I didn't know it would be like that. I didn't expect that we would become so intimate. I didn't know that would… happen."

"We danced together," Kurt says, and there's no judgment in his voice (and that's a relief). "That's not what you wanted? To dance with me?"

"It was more than dancing," Blaine says. "For me anyway." As he meets Kurt's gaze in the dark, it feels as if the heat still hasn't quite left his face.

"Well," Kurt says, slowly, "I admit, dancing is among my favorite forms of foreplay, so I'd hoped it would lead us to—" He breaks off with a realization dawning in the shape of his open mouth. "Many Apatheans abstain from sexual relations outside of marriage," he says as if quoting a report.

"Many?" Blaine echoes. "It's actually a lot more than many. Most? Nearly all? There's not one person of rank in government service who doesn't."

Kurt bows his head then. "I've made another mistake," Kurt says. "From the way you looked at me, the way you seemed so receptive to my flirtations, I believed we had a mutual attraction that you were interested in exploring together. I assumed—incorrectly—that you were not among those in your society who choose to practice celibacy."

Blaine laughs softly, partly at himself—for there are still things he doesn't understand, the full significance of the words Kurt uses (flirtation is an unfamiliar one) or the precise context (receptive?). He explains his own assumptions: "I believed we were going to talk, and you were going to give me a tour of the Garden."

Kurt exhales a huff of amused breath through his smile to echo Blaine's laughter. "Oh. I thought you'd know from your preparations and research, Blaine. The Garden is a place people go to make love in the evenings."

"Oh," Blaine says, and then, as understanding sinks in more fully (for he can successfully parse the phrase 'make love'): Kurt had propositioned him for physical intimacy, and he had, in his failure to understand, said yes. "Oh."

"You truly had no idea?"

And it's that, the entire absence of even an idea—the way he so completely missed the significance of their interactions that rouses Blaine's frustration. Though he tries to temper it, he can hear it in his own voice when he responds, "I'm beginning to suspect that a lot of the preparation I did was based on heavily censored and limited material."

Kurt doesn't miss it. "That makes you angry?"

"It does, yes. I don't like being kept ignorant. I can't do my job well if I don't have all the relevant information."

"I suppose someone in your ministry didn't think this was relevant information," Kurt says lightly, as if he wishes to defuse Blaine's frustration, but then he cocks his head adds more sympathetically, "But it is relevant to you?"

"Very much so, apparently," Blaine says, and he summons a smile for Kurt, which Kurt returns.

The silence between them isn't uncomfortable, and that's pleasant, to feel some ease in Kurt's company, especially given the difficulty of the situation they're navigating. It makes Blaine grateful they can speak this candidly. He understands, then, the true value of the Elyssian honesty. There's no dissembling or elision for propriety's sake. No information being obfuscated to maintain a false illusion. It's refreshing.

It's in the lull between them that the door trills and a young man comes in bearing a tray. He doesn't speak, just sets the tray down upon the couch between them. Upon it is two mugs, an insulated flask, and an oval plate with what appear to be sugar dusted fritters. He bows briefly and departs.

"May I ask you something more personal?" Kurt says once they're alone again. He sits forward to offer Blaine the plate of fritters, "The beignets are best warm," he says.

They're well past the boundaries of personal, so it doesn't make sense to decline Kurt's request. "Sure," Blaine says, and he takes one of the round pastries. "You've already read my school records. I don't imagine I have much to hide from you at this point." He grins so Kurt will understand that all is forgiven. Then Blaine bites into the beignet. The sweetness of the sugar clings to his lips and falls away beneath his fingertips. The crisp freshly-fried surface gives way to a tender, fluffy interior. Blaine reaches for one of the cloth napkins on the tray before he ends up covered in sugar. "These are delicious," he mumbles. He's not remotely hungry after the lavish dinner, but the flavor and texture of the beignets rouses a craving for more. A second bite reveals a tart jam center.

Kurt grins back and pours a aromatic beverage from an insulated flask into the two handleless mugs. He passes one to Blaine, and leans back. Thoughtfully, he blows across his own drink before he speaks, "You chose celibacy in order to pursue your career? Is that correct?"

Blaine wraps his hand around the smooth heat of the ceramic mug, swallows his mouthful, and wipes his lips neatly. He shakes his head and replies, "No, it's, uh, I've never thought about it like that. It wasn't a choice."

With a frown, Kurt asks, "How is that even possible?" 

"Um, well," he begins, unsure how to explain if Kurt's baffled. He rests his mug against his thigh. "When puberty came, my parents took me to the doctor, and I took blockers throughout my adolescence just like every other child. I've never not been celibate."

"Blockers?"

"It's, ah, medicine to stop the bodily urges, so we're not distracted by them when we're so young and need most to devote ourselves to our studies."

"Bodily urges? You mean sexual desire?" Even in the dark, Blaine can see how Kurt's eyebrows rise. 

"Yes," Blaine says, the heat of a flush rising up his neck at Kurt's direct words. "That's correct." He takes a sip of the beverage, finds it bitter and rich, a complementary contrast to the sweet treats.

"So are you telling me that you've never experienced sexual pleasure?"

"No." 

"Not even with yourself?" Kurt asks, incredulous but without apparent judgment. He nibbles at a beignet. "Many of my friends who choose celibacy still masturbate."

"Masturbate?" Blaine asks. "I don't know that word."

"It's when you touch yourself, your own body, for pleasure," Kurt explains, so frankly again and without the weight of criticism: there's no repudiation of Blaine's ignorance, just information offered. Blessedly, it doesn't aggravate Blaine's embarrassment—instead he feels relieved.

"No," Blaine says. "I've actually never even heard of people doing that."

Kurt's lips press into a grimace. "That… all seems rather harsh to me. To do that to children? To take away your potential for natural desire and the experience of pleasure as you mature? You truly didn't have a choice in the matter?"

"No, I didn't. I was a minor in my parents' care. It—" Blaine swallows hard. "All children go through this, Kurt. It's not unusual."

"Not here. That's so strange to me. And what about now? Do you still take these blockers?"

"No," Blaine says, more quietly, "I haven't for a few years now."

"Then," Kurt says slowly, "could you choose something else for yourself? Now?"

"I…" Blaine says, and he frowns. It's not something he's ever questioned. "It's not done."

"That sounds very passive. You don't seem like a very passive person to me."

"I'm not, but this is something different. Intimate—sexual—misconduct is the sort of thing that ruins reputations and ends careers."

"Misconduct? You say that as if sex is a crime."

"It's not a crime, it's just… very taboo and reserved for the sanctity of marriage."

"What about people who don't desire marriage?" Kurt asks. "Are they expected to live their lives without experiencing the joy of sharing themselves with another?" The questions challenge Blaine, but Kurt is more curious than aggressive. Exchange of cultural information, especially on topics this sensitive, is valuable.

So Blaine answers as best he can, with what he's been told his entire life. "It doesn't serve the common interests of society for people to selfishly indulge their desires in that way. We understand how disruptive the pursuit of sex can be, how much strife and lost effort it results in. It's—the lust for it—considered a kind of madness."

Kurt's expression grows horrified. "You say 'we', but what do you think? Do you agree?"

But the challenge Kurt presents Blaine is not merely cultural but personal—and immediate for how Kurt has made him feel this night. No easy abstraction or rote reply will suffice. "I'm not sure what I think right now, Kurt."

"Do you believe it's selfish? To share pleasure with someone?" Kurt asks with more urgency. "Because I don't. I believe it's very generous and compassionate. It's certainly not madness, Blaine. Pleasure is the highest good we can attain. What possible quality can a life have without it?"

Blaine blinks, startled by Kurt's sudden vehemence. It's not something he's thought deeply about. It's always been discouraged to entertain even a thought. "I don't know," he says. "I haven't any knowledge or experience."

"You have some," Kurt says.

"I do?"

"Tonight," Kurt says. "Did you enjoy dancing with me?" Kurt asks. "Did it feel good?"

"I… It was very intense," Blaine says, and the recent memory comes with a swoop of disorientation. "It did feel good," he confesses in a whisper, and he lowers his gaze. 

"Your body was so hot against me," Kurt says, his voice soft with the recollection. "And your cock was so hard against me. I heard the noises you made. Do you believe I was selfish to evoke those good feelings within you?"

"Kurt," Blaine whispers. "No." But he makes himself look up to be snared in the intensity and heat of Kurt's regard.

"Did you know you blush whenever our eyes meet?" Kurt asks.

"Yes," Blaine says, and he holds Kurt's gaze. It feels rebellious and delicious—and completely terrifying.

"You're getting hot again, aren't you? Right now, even in this cold room. You're getting hotter, just from this, just us talking and looking at each other."

"I am," Blaine confesses, and though Kurt hasn't moved from his end of the couch, he seems so much closer, taking up all of Blaine's awareness.

"Is your cock getting hard again, too?" Kurt asks, gently, as if he knows how these words press at Blaine. "Now that you've had a taste of how amazing your body can feel?"

"This is very intimate," Blaine says, but he refuses to look away, for this is something to be faced. He doesn't want to remain so ignorant. "You're very bold to talk to me like this."

With a self-conscious twitch of his lips, Kurt glances away and then back. "I simply want you to understand that you do have a choice, Blaine. Here with me at least, you have a choice. I would show you so many beautiful things. So much pleasure." Kurt's smile is easy, open. "If you wanted to choose that with me."

"I don't know," Blaine says. "Maybe I do want—something. Maybe. I'm curious, but—" Blaine breaks off with a sigh. He turns the half-eaten pastry in his fingers. It's cooled down.

"You don't have to make a decision tonight," Kurt says, and he sets aside his mug to lean forward, tucking his knees beneath him and reaching to place a hand upon Blaine's thigh. "I don't wish to pressure you, and I understand if you need some time. But would you consider doing me a favor?"

The weight of Kurt's hand sends a thrill up Blaine's spine, and now he's the curious one. He lets himself be curious. "What's that?"

"Take a bath? The lavender blend is relaxing to the mind and stimulating to the body. Take yourself to your bath and let yourself linger. Let yourself feel the heat and the caress of the water, let your hands wander upon your own skin. See how it feels."

"I can.. Yes, I can try that," Blaine says. A bath is extravagant but not without utility.

"And afterward," Kurt says, his voice lower and his smile tilting into a line that beckons to something deeper within Blaine. "You could lie on your bed without getting dressed and consider giving yourself your first orgasm," Kurt slides his hand up Blaine's thigh to his hip, and he moves closer. "And then maybe, if you like? You could tell me about it."

"Orgasm?" Blaine asks softly in the shrinking space between them.

"Is that an unfamiliar word for you?" Kurt is so near Blaine can make out the blue of his eyes.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Blaine says. "I'm sorry, I feel so ignorant not knowing the right words."

"There's no shame in not knowing a thing. Only in rejecting it without attempting understanding," Kurt says. "It's a peak of physical pleasure. When we have sex, it's often—but not always—the goal. I believe our first orgasm is a wonderful gift to give ourselves. It's important to know our own bodies, so that we may come together in enlightenment, not ignorance."

Blaine's heartbeat rises in his throat, making it difficult to speak with much volume. "I can definitely respect that," Blaine breathes.

"May I offer you some inspiration?" Kurt touches Blaine's shoulder and moves in even closer. "I'd like to kiss you, if I may?"

"All right," Blaine whispers.

Kurt's fingertips are light upon Blaine's cheek. And then he leans in, breathless and soft-lipped to press an achingly tender and terribly brief kiss to Blaine's mouth. The fleeting tease of contact leaves Blaine as stunned as if he'd suffered a blow to the head. A fresh taste of sugar lingers on his lips, making Blaine crave again, but different things, darker things.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Kurt says as he withdraws from Blaine's space. "I'll find someone to escort you back to your quarters now. Sleep well, Blaine, and think of me?"

"I— I will."


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, the alarm wakes Blaine, pinging incessantly from inside his head at a frequency to make his teeth ache. Normally he wakes before it goes off—he trained himself to, since he loathes it so much. It's a less than auspicious start to his first full day aboard _The Galactic Diamond_.

Strange to remind himself that he's not been here even a day. Yesterday felt like a week. Blaine taps behind his ear to silence the alarm, which—in turn—triggers his eyepiece's deployment. So he grits his teeth against his irritation as it unfolds itself in front of his view. He sits up to scan the daily schedule that's popped up for him. He doesn't see any changes.

It's a groggy stumble to the bathroom, and the previous day is a whirling blur of fuzzy impressions trying to come into focus. Travel and arrival days are always like this for him—there's so much newness packed into every minute, but yesterday was even more unsettling than usual—and last night. Oh, last night. Kurt. The dance. Their conversation. The favor Kurt asked. (Which Blaine did not attend to last night due to the late hour.)

Kurt.

His name, even imagined silently in Blaine's mind—the memory of him. His smile, his eyes, his voice. The way he moved, his elegant clothes, his kindness and openness. The full body draw of him. Taken together—too many details to catalog or name, even if Blaine had the words—it brings an upwelling of warmth, giddy and strangely wonderful. The pulse of anticipation tickles pleasantly in Blaine's veins, summons a flush upon his cheeks as he cleans his teeth. He'll see Kurt again soon.

Blaine gets himself showered, shaved, and dressed in a fresh uniform. His hair is perfect, not a speck of lint or even a fine wrinkle to mar his clothing. He adjusts his badge, and remembers when he received it, how proud he was to have earned it. He's saved the letter from his parents expressing their pride and support. He'd been so excited then, too, for all this meant to him. Not only was it a tangible sign of his success, but a promise for his future. He'd be traveling and meeting new cultures, new people—exploring and learning while he helped build and maintain a better world.

.

He heads out for their breakfast meeting, thirty minutes early as is his routine, so that he'll be there and settled before the others arrive. It gives him time to organize, update, and review for the day and to prepare the room for the Ambassador. He prefers to precede the Ambassador herself; he never wants to leave her waiting.

Already, there's a tray with a flask, a teapot, and mugs on the table along with a basket of assorted fruit pastries, which appear to be a flakier and glazed variation on a common Apathean morning bread. The Ambassador likes to start the day with something light. Blaine sits and pours himself a mug from the flask. It's the same beverage as last night, dark, fragrant, and rich. Then he sits and rereads his notes from the day before.

Soon, the Ambassador comes in, looking much the same as always. Blaine gets up and helps her straighten her sash before she sits. "You were very late coming back last night," she says as Blaine makes the tea for her. He can't read her tone. It's not accusatory, but he can't help but sense that she's fishing for something. He's pleased to see Kurt and his staff received his instructions on how to best brew the rare white tea she prefers. No bitter scent accompanies his pouring of it. 

"Yes, I was," he says simply and resists the urge to explain or justify himself for her approval. Hopes the warmth still flushing his body doesn't make itself visible on his face or in his demeanor. His hands remain steady as he selects a pastry from the basket with the silver tongs provided. He puts it on a small plate and passes it to the Ambassador along with a folded cloth napkin.

"I read your analysis this morning," she says, also unreadable, looking directly into his eyes, and Blaine wonders if she's trying to provoke him into a revelation. He doesn't flinch from her scrutiny, tries to banish the irrational fear that she can read everything in his face, all the tumult of last night, see all of his wayward thoughts and behavior revealed in the set of his mouth or the line of his brow.

"I hope it was satisfactory," he says with a placid smile.

"It was more than that," she says. "I appreciated the care you took in your word selection. Very subtle, very astute framing of the issue for the Defense office. You did good work. Thank you, Blaine."

The rush of relief at her generous approval is surprising in its strength. "I'm glad," he says.

"I trust you'll be able to maintain this level of work while we're staying with the Elyssians," she says, and, before Blaine can determine whether there's a tacit admonishment of his late night or a warning in her words, the others come in, and they're eager to get down to the business of the day.

Then, almost as if on cue, the door chimes and Kurt enters, preceding a linen draped cart, pushed by a young woman in an apron. Atop the cart are plates covered in shiny metal domes. The smell of hot food rouses Blaine's appetite, and the sight of Kurt makes him sit straighter in his chair.

Kurt's manner of dress and grooming are impeccable, and there's no sign of the late night in either his posture or his face. He's dressed more modestly than last night, though still, to Blaine's eye, provocatively. His steel blue trousers are tight with criss-crossed red laces up the length of the legs that draw Blaine's eye. The loose sleeves of his snug red shirt are sheer and Blaine can make out the shape and flex of his muscles. He wears a wide band of purple velvet around his throat from which drapes a fine silver chain with a cloisonne pendant of a fruit tree blossom.

Kurt's attention rests first on the Ambassador, and he's all professional charm and manners. He explains the selection of food he's brought while the girl serves them. He's included the Ambassador's customary preferences of hot cereal, fruit, and a mild fresh cheese (made this very morning as per her office's instruction) and also, he's taken the liberty of selecting a few other other nutritious options from Elyssian metropolitan cuisine that may appeal to her palate—or to those of the delegation. "Additionally, I've included popular breakfast foods from all your homeworlds," Kurt says, "As well as a few favorites from my own."

It's then that Kurt's gaze passes over Blaine and catches, much like his breath does in an instant so brief, Blaine hopes the Ambassador and the others miss it. But Kurt's lips part, his eyelids lower, and then, he's recovering himself, blinking wide and broadening his smile, and explaining the beverage selection. The hot drink Blaine's enjoying is coffee. Blaine looks down at his hands, folded in his lap, to hide his blush.

"Please enjoy your meal," Kurt says, "Sam will be by after you eat to set you all up with infotabs to interface with the ship's network." Then he bows shallowly and pivots to depart with the girl and the cart. Blaine glances up to watch Kurt as he goes and sees, at the door, Kurt pause and turn his head far enough to send a quick, private grin back to Blaine. It feels like a promise.

.

After a night of little sleep, the morning meeting requires all of Blaine's effort to concentrate well. It leaves him little opportunity for his thoughts to stray to Kurt, though there are moments when, unwittingly, a flash of the previous night intrudes and Blaine has to steady his breathing and take care to maintain his composure.

Much of the breakfast meeting is logistical, refreshing protocol and etiquette. Nick explains how the Elyssian meeting room will be laid out, how everyone will be seated, the significance of those positions, the mistakes to avoid. The Ambassador provides her instruction, too. Blaine understands his role is primarily to listen and observe, attend to the finer points and the implications so that his analysis may provide insight. He's tired and, after the misunderstanding with Kurt last night, not as confident as he would prefer to be.

He amends the Ambassador's earlier instruction to be literal minded.

Sam comes in as they're finishing up the meal. He passes each of them a small infotab. Its a smooth metallic cylinder with an extendable, flexible screen. The device interfaces with _The Galactic Diamond's_ network. Major Clarington rejected a direct link between the ship and their individual data rigs as being too much of a security liability.

"So there's no way for me to send a message directly from my rig—" Blaine touches his temple lightly. "—to someone on the ship?"

Sam shakes his head. "Not with the encryption you're using," he says. "But I've set up these infotabs to respond to all the standard commands in your language, and I've translated and modified the interface to something more familiar to what you're used to. I'll show you how to send a message."

He sits next to Blaine and talks him through sending a test message to Mercedes' on duty account. It's simple enough. "And here's a directory of all the public accounts on the ship you might need."

Blaine scans the list briefly to verify Kurt's account is there: Master of Hospitality. "Thank you," Blaine says.

"I've installed biometric locks on them too," Sam says, "So each one is keyed to your individual thumbprint." And he shows them all how to activate that feature.

After breakfast, and after Sam leaves, Blaine finds himself with an hour to himself before they head into the round table meeting with Councilor Wright and her people. The Ambassador excuses herself, and Blaine stands to stretch. He stifles a yawn and goes over to the wall panel to open a view port on the exterior wall. They're not at warp yet.

Trent joins him. "So how was it last night?" Trent asks softly, as if he doesn't wish to be overheard by the others. "Everyone knows you were late returning."

"Well," Blaine says, resenting in the moment the way his data rig logs so much of his personal activity—whether he likes it or not. And it occurs to him, for the first time, that the medical monitor would have noted his physical state changes too. He hopes, if anyone looks, they'll assume it wasn't anything more than the exertion of dancing. "There was music—including a live performance—dancing of course. I got caught up in interesting conversation."

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"It was…" Blaine purses his lips as he seeks the best word to both answer Trent but discourage more pointed interrogation. "Enlightening."

"If you go again, please tell me," Trent says, "The gods know I'm not brave enough to go on my own, but I'm so curious."

"I will," Blaine says. "But right now," he rolls his head and winces at the tension forming in his neck, and he has an idea. "I think I'd like to find out if there's a gymnasium on the ship. After the late night, I could use the metabolic boost. Excuse me," he says.

His heart flutters in his chest as he heads into his bedchamber to get his workout gear and a small carrysack. It's true that the idea of a good workout appeals; it's often good for clearing his head. But this is also something he can use as an excuse to see Kurt. He uses the infotab to send a polite query to Kurt's account. He gets a reply within a few minutes. "I'll come by your quarters and escort you."

Kurt's waiting for him by the time he's got his things together. The Ambassador has returned to the sitting area, but the others are gone. She's reading on her headset, and spares Kurt only the briefest glance of disinterest.

"You requested information about the gymnasium and other exercise amenities on the ship?" Kurt asks, polite and professional.

"Yes," Blaine says. "I've been sitting so much, I'd benefit from some physical exertion."

One of Kurt's eyebrow rises a fraction of a millimeter, and his voice warms with amusement when he replies, "I'll show you the way," he says. "Please, come with me."

Blaine follows him out into the hall.

"Are you flirting with me?" he asks Blaine quietly once they're several meters down the hall.

"I don't think so? But you'll need to explain flirting to me so I can be sure."

"Oh, goodness, you're so charming," Kurt laughs, and his eyes shine. "Flirting is… a kind of overture, I suppose. An expression of interest in pursuing some romantic or sexual interaction with a person. It can be simple, like sustained eye-contact, or a touch. Or it can be more complex and playful, like an innuendo in the subtext of one's speech, say, for example, using a phrase like physical exertion as a euphemism for sexual activity."

"Oh, no," Blaine says, amused. "I genuinely want to exercise this morning." (And he notes with some satisfaction that he's correct. Kurt, at least, is not so literal-minded after all, though still refreshingly candid.) "And," Blaine adds, choosing to be candid in return, "I wanted to see you. I was hoping we could spend some time together again later."

Kurt nods and they enter a lift. He gives a vocal command, and it sinks. "Will you come to the dance again tonight?" he asks Blaine.

"No. I don't think I'm ready for that again yet. And I may need to be a bit more discreet tonight."

"I understand. So something quieter, then? Just the two of us?"

"That would be my preference. What are our options?"

"You could come to my rooms for a late supper? After your colleagues have retired for the evening and we're both at our leisure?"

"And a late supper is—?" Blaine asks with a smile as they exit the lift. "I want to be sure I'm not missing some other implication here. In case you're flirting with me."

Kurt laughs in delight, and gestures to indicate the correct direction to take. "While I'm open to many things, Blaine, I'm not proposing anything more than we share a light meal and conversation."

"That sounds perfect," Blaine says.

"And here's the gymnasium," Kurt says, indicating the wide glass doors at the end of the brightly lit corridor. "There'll be plenty of people inside to assist you should you need help."

"Thank you," Blaine says. "Will I see you in the meetings today."

"No," Kurt says. "The meetings are closed, and politics aren't within my realm of responsibilities. Mercedes is arranging your luncheon today, so you'll be seeing her."

"Right," Blaine says and looks down, feeling suddenly too awkward and inept in his eagerness.

Kurt seems to sense it. "It's fine," he says. "I'm flattered, truly, Blaine. You could have found your own way here using the infotab." He reaches out to touch Blaine's upper arm, rubs a slow circle of pressure over Blaine's biceps with his thumb. "But I'm so glad you didn't."

Blaine looks up, meets Kurt's eyes, and they share a long smile. Kurt's hand slides down to Blaine's elbow. "And in case you're wondering," Kurt says, "That was me flirting." He lets go of Blaine and steps back. "I'll look forward to seeing you tonight. I'll message you the details."

.

The gymnasium is airy and well-appointed. An energetic blond woman in brief attire gives Blaine a quick orienting tour. He suspects she may also be flirting with him. He takes care not to inadvertently flirt back.

He's getting into a good rhythm on the rowing simulator, centering himself in breath and motion, enjoying the burn across his shoulders and in his thighs, when his priority message alert pings. He deploys his eyepiece and checks. It's the previous day's news reports from home. With a sigh that breaks his concentrated breathing, Blaine resigns himself to having to read them while he continues his workout.

It's tempting to put his rig into sleep mode, just for the duration of his gym visit, but it's forbidden while on a mission. So he presses onward.

The first day of meetings is always his least favorite. There's a lot of the diplomatic equivalent of small talk as each party navigates around the other to establish some kind of rapport or flex their power. It's less fraught with Isabelle. She's open and inviting in a way that is sincere, and the Ambassador, Blaine knows, is interested in helping as much as she can.

Captain Dupont presents, in greater detail, the military challenges and requirements. Elliott explains the political barriers, and Isabelle speaks of her goals for the process. The Ambassador offers the initial aid she can, and so it goes. Mercedes brings a hot Apathean style lunch to them. It's relief to Blaine's stomach to be presented with simpler, nourishing food, even though he'd been looking forward to trying something new. Thus fortified, they work through the meal and into the evening, missing the dinner hours altogether.

By the time they break up for the evening, Blaine has a headache, and is wishing he could pry the chips of his data rig directly from his head and flush them down the lavatory. They're running hot after the constant heavy use during the negotiations, and he can feel them vividly, at his temples, around the rim of his eye-socket, and at the base of his skull.

He gets to his room feeling drained and restlessly irritable in equal measure. And it's still two hours until his supper appointment (Date?) with Kurt. He considers getting as much more work out of the way as he can so that he'll have nothing pressing when he visits Kurt. But the burning throb in his head discourages such intentions. He'd like to change out of his uniform, too.

And Kurt may ask him about the bath—did Blaine do his favor? He doesn't wish to disappoint Kurt, so Blaine goes into the bathroom and considers the tub. He taps the panel to fill it, and finds the lavender blend bath oil—relaxing to the mind, Kurt had said—he drizzles the recommended amount under the flow of water. The fragrance fills his nose pleasantly. Blaine inhales deeply of the seductive scent. Then he stands to undress.

Gingerly, he lowers himself into the warm water. He's not dialed the water as hot as Kurt had recommended, but too much more heat while his rig cools seems unwise, so the water is just at blood temperature, which is nice. Settling into the water and closing his eyes, Blaine breathes to relax, much as he would during a meditation session. He directs his attention to the feel of the water surrounding his body. The sensation is light, the movement of the water only slightly more substantial than a breeze, but smooth and languid.

He lays his idle hands upon his chest. Touching himself isn't that strange, but usually it's a practical touch, to clean, to dress, to groom. He begins slowly, lightly drawing his fingertips across his skin. Over his pecs, down his abdomen, and back up again, one hand down one arm, and then alternating. It's pleasant, vaguely ticklish and alluring. His hands move to his thighs then, as far as he can reach, and then he hesitates at his groin. The light contact has been enough for him to feel a ghost of the pleasure he experienced while dancing with Kurt, but not enough to make his penis—or cock as Kurt called it—erect.

Perhaps that requires the touch of another, not his own. Maybe he doesn't have the requisite skill to arouse his own body sufficiently—or to give himself an orgasm. But then, Kurt had suggested he move to the bed for that. Blaine checks the time. He still has an hour; he'll make a good faith attempt for Kurt.

He gets out the bath and dries off, but instead of dressing, goes nude to his room. Even alone, it makes him feel overexposed, like someone may be watching. He double checks that the lock on his door is engaged, and then he lies down on the bed.

The covering is smooth against his bare skin, and he shifts his arms and legs against it to better experience the softness against his body. After the bath, his sensitivity seems heightened. He turns his face to rub his cheek against the silky cover of his pillow, and he closes his eyes again to think of Kurt and the inspiration he offered: a kiss. Blaine touches his lips with shy fingertips to help recall the memory. And now he feels it, the way his pulse beats lower, the way the heaviness gathers between his legs. His other hand he slips down, open-palmed, and Blaine drags it up the thickening length of his penis.

A deeper, warmer pleasure ripples through his body at that firmer touch, his penis jerks against his hand, and Blaine gasps at the strength of it. Yes, this is how it was dancing, pressed against Kurt. Only this is more acute for directness of his own touch. The skin of his penis is hot and smooth beneath his palm. It feels… good. Definitely good.

And yet, he's still unsure how to proceed. How will he know when he reaches a peak when even this one touch feels better than anything he's experienced before? Does he need to touch himself differently in order to find it? He brings his hand up further to the tip of his penis where the flushed head of it peeks past his foreskin. Even a feather-light touch there on the exposed glans is too much: sharp enough to make him flinch. He lets his hand drop to his side, useless and uncertain. He doesn't want to do this wrong or risk harming himself. There must be a correct technique.

He's lying there, staring out at the starfield and considering how to best proceed when his rig pings again. Blaine nearly swears; the wrench of it so discordant. He sits up to check. It's the latest strategic notes from Hunter. He'll need to have read them by the morning, which, given his imminent plans with Kurt and Hunter's verbose and hyper-technical style of composition, doesn't inspire Blaine to return to his attempted masturbation. The mood is shattered.

He'll get dressed and go to Kurt, and if he has the opportunity to ask for more guidance in this personal matter, he will. And after that, he'll read Hunter's notes and do his work. He'll squeeze in some sleep somewhere.


	8. Chapter 8

Blaine arrives outside Kurt's quarters exactly one minute early. To calm his nerves, he reminds himself they are not courting one another as potential spouses: this is a new friendship. If there's more intimacy here than Blaine has experienced with his other friends, that's because of their different cultural foundations. He's here to understand those differences better. After all, it's his job to learn about and appreciate diversity.

Carefully, he elides the part where the understanding he pursues is less theoretical than it should be and possibly more hands on than it strictly needs to be. Blaine adjusts the open collar of his shirt one more time and smooths a hand over his hair. The minute passes and Blaine presses the panel by the door to announce his presence.

The panel sweeps open and Kurt stands before him. He's changed his clothes, too. He wears sueded gray trousers that cling to his legs like a second skin and a loose black top with a wide neck that exposes his collarbones and bare neck. It's draped askew, baring the curve of one pale shoulder—a tempting place for Blaine to let his attention linger, but there's a glimmer of pearlescent shine across the tops of Kurt's cheekbones and a rosy gloss to his lips that brings Blaine's attention to his face. Kurt's hair is an artful tousle, thick and glossy. Kurt smiles and it crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"Hi," Blaine says, and he hears his breathlessness in his own voice.

"Good evening," he says. "Come in, Blaine." Kurt steps back, and Blaine steps in as if drawn, magnet like, to Kurt. A hot flush of unhinged desire twists up in his chest so strongly it's like a wave of nausea, only he doesn't feel sickened by it, more hollowed out and hungry. He wants so badly to touch Kurt, to feel the texture of his clothes and his skin. He wants to step close and press his mouth to Kurt's to feel the gloss of his lips and find out the way they would slide against his own. He wants to feed upon his tender breath and close heat. He aches to trace the curve of Kurt's shoulder with his fingertips. He wonders if the strength of the impulse is a remnant from his arousal after his bath.

Blaine clasps his hands together and lowers his gaze politely. "How are you tonight?" he asks. "Has your day been rewarding?"

"I believe it's getting there," Kurt says, his smile warm in his voice. "Are you hungry? I understand you missed dinner."

"Starving," Blaine says. It doesn't feel like an exaggeration. It's not just his belly that feels empty. The draw of his curiosity has never felt so ravenous.

Kurt's laughter is delightful "Well, I have plenty of food," he says.

Blaine follows Kurt further into his rooms. It's a small, tidy apartment—larger than the one Blaine keeps at home, but not ostentatious. It's uncluttered and crisp, light without being too bright, and airy. The furniture and fixtures are mostly pale neutral colors, shades of gray and taupe, with the occasional arresting splash of warm color: rust, vermillion, and crimson providing accent. Scattered glints of cerulean blue provide contrast. As Blaine looks, he perceives a keen attention to detail. The texture of every surface, the quality of every furnishing, the sparse but careful collections of whimsical ornaments and art that decorate the space. Kurt even has a shelf of printed paper books with embossed leather binding and an old style phonograph with a broad amplifier like an open brass flower.

"Your apartment's very nice," Blaine says. He catches the scent of the supper Kurt's prepared, fresh with a tartness that catches in the back of his nose and makes his mouth water.

"Thank you," Kurt says. "Please seat yourself," he says, gesturing toward the small table, laden with colorful dishes. "May I get you a drink? I can offer you chilled tea, fruit juice… I could make you a virgin cocktail of some variety. You enjoyed the rose cordial at the reception?" Kurt looks at him thoughtfully. "Unless you want to try some wine? I rarely drink it outside Bacchanalia, but I do have some from home if you—?"

"Chilled tea or water will be fine."

"All right," Kurt says. "There's water on the table."

They sit. "Despite my having so rudely pried into your old school papers," Kurt says wryly. "I wasn't sure what you'd enjoy most tonight. So there's some variety. Help yourself."

Much of the food is cold or room temperature, salads, cheeses, and breads with various savory spreads, dressings, and infused oils to go with them. There's an array of fruit pâtés, roasted spiced nuts, and grilled vegetables.

"Did you make all of this?" Blaine asks, reaching for the serving spoons resting at the side of a platter of herb scattered summer vegetables. He recognizes most of them: tomatoes, peppers, summer squash, aubergine. The scent of fresh basil is unmistakeable.

"Mmhm," Kurt hums in affirmation. "I had the afternoon off, and I needed to occupy my hands."

Blaine can't help looking at those hands, the contrast of the strength in their lines and the way Kurt holds a knife so delicately, deftly spreading a creamy bean puree onto a slice of bread. He thinks about Kurt's hands at the small of his back when they danced and on his arm in the hallway today. And then he thinks about his own hands on his body just a scant hour ago. It's not a leap to imagine Kurt's hands on him in a similar way. Or his own upon Kurt. Blaine bites his lip and concentrates on transferring the food from the serving platter to his plate without spilling it.

Kurt doesn't seem to notice his lapse and keeps talking. "For a time when I was younger, I considered studying to become a chef," Kurt says. "Cooking relaxes me, and it's a wonderful outlet for creativity. But—" He sighs. "I couldn't manage the routine day-in day-out of doing it professionally. I enjoy more opportunity for varying my days. So it's more of a hobby now."

"And you find this variety in your current job?" Blaine asks. Serving guests seems like it could run to the routine fairly easily. "It doesn't get tedious, catering to strangers?"

"Not at all," Kurt says. "It's a constant challenge, getting to know such diverse people as guests, their tastes and preferences, learning how to make them most content while they're away from their homes and working. It can be stressful for them—for any of us. So to understand the different ways people exist in their lives is my goal, to ease that disconnection and stress as much as I can? We all seek comfort and stimulation, want to avoid distress, but we're so diverse in the various ways we do that, you know?" He looks up at Blaine, his gaze asking for indication of Blaine's understanding.

"Yeah," Blaine says. "I find that kind of challenge in my work, too. I know it's very different from what you do, but I get what you're saying. I have to study to understand the diversity of other cultures and individuals, and then sort of… translate it for the Ambassador and the others in our delegation while also finding ways for us to translate ourselves to them, not just linguistically, but culturally. It's… always challenging. I'm always learning. Never a boring day, just the occasional too long one." Blaine smiles and holds Kurt's gaze.

Kurt's answering smile is long and stretches into a silence between them, but it's easy with their accord. "And how has today been for you?" Kurt asks, and it's accompanied by a soft flutter of his eyelashes and an alluring coloring of his cheeks.

"Today is one that I thought was determined to be too long, but now that I'm here with you, it feels unfortunately brief. I don't wish for it to be over."

"Oh," Kurt's smile widens in evident pleasure. He cocks his head. "Are you sure you're not flirting with me now, Blaine?"

"No, I'm not sure at all."

The way Kurt's breath catches and stutters in his throat is a surprising reward. It doesn't stop Blaine from feeling flustered in return. He's not accustomed to affecting another person in this manner, or so easily.

"The food is excellent," Blaine adds, returning his attention to his plate. "I haven't tasted vegetables this fresh since I was planetside last summer."

"The produce is all grown on the ship, so you can thank our gardeners for that. What you're eating is is my grandmother's ratatouille, the recipe was handed down to her from her grandmother, and many great grandmothers before her according to family legend. The secret is in the preparation of each individual vegetable as well as the precise blend of herbs—just a hint of lavender."

"It's delicious," Blaine says.

They talk more, about Kurt's growing up on Lima, his other career dalliances as he calls them—stage performer, fashion designer, chef, interior decorator, journalist, playwright—all of which led him to this point, where he's been most happy. "So far anyway," he amends. "And you?" he asks Blaine. "Is this what you always wanted to do?"

"Mostly, yes? I've always wanted to do something important, something that contributes to the world, something that helps people. So I always knew I wanted to go into government service. The Diplomatic Corps was my highest hope, for the freedom it offered to travel and learn and meet new people. I've been very lucky," Blaine says. "To find this much success so early in my career."

"I'm sure you've more than earned it," Kurt says. "I feel we may be alike in this. My position here? It's usually held by people with far more experience than I have, but I seem to have a talent for it. Isabelle has been good to me."

"You're making all of us very comfortable on this mission," Blaine says. "And speaking only for myself, I'm definitely finding my stay… stimulating. Thanks to you."

"Now who's being bold?" Kurt asks softly, but he's looking at Blaine with more than friendliness in his eyes. An unspoken question burns there. "Shall we retire to more comfortable seating?"

"Please," Blaine says.

.

In Kurt's lounging area, they sit on a sofa together. It's wide and low, yielding beneath Blaine's weight and velvety to his touch. Kurt leans near him, his bent elbow resting against the backrest, his fingers tangling idly in his hair. "You smell good," he says. "Did you try the bath tonight?"

"Yeah, before I came to see you."

"And how was it?" Kurt asks, and there's an intent sort of sweetness to the way he asks, as if this question is vitally important and Blaine's experience matters to him.

"It was relaxing," Blaine says, smiles as he feels his face warm beneath Kurt's closer attention. "Definitely pleasant."

"And after, were you able to find your climax?"

"I—um—you mean an orgasm?" Blaine asks, and Kurt nods. "No. I didn't. I don't think so."

"So you didn't masturbate?"

"I touched myself, " Blaine says. "But I was interrupted before I could find a functional technique. Honestly, I wasn't sure how exactly to go about doing it, how, um, I should touch myself differently to experience a peak?" Blaine looks down, feels the comfortable flush of enjoying Kurt's company overwhelmed by the less pleasant burn of embarrassment. He tries to explain, haltingly, "My, ah, genitals are very… sensitive. I didn't want to— I was afraid I might hurt myself by doing something wrong."

"Oh, Blaine," Kurt says, and he straightens his arm to place his hand over Blaine's shoulder. "There's no need to be ashamed. You won't hurt yourself. But you truly don't know, do you?"

"No," Blaine says. "I really don't. But I want to learn."

Kurt is quiet for a moment, contemplating Blaine. "If I told you to mimic the motion of fucking with your hand on yourself, would that help?"

"Fucking? Kurt, I don't know that word. I can try to guess, look it up in the dictionary, but even then, I don't know anything about sex beyond the most basic facts of how a man and a woman reproduce. And neither of us is a woman."

Kurt's frown is slight but unmistakeable. "I could show you an instructional video of a man masturbating—they show them to us in school when we're of an appropriate age to start learning about sex."

"No, I don't want to watch a stranger or a video for children. That's too…" Too much emotion threatens to clamp Blaine's throat closed, and he feels a twinge behind his eyes. He's not going to cry over this. Especially not when Kurt says there's no reason to be ashamed, but Blaine hates not knowing; it makes him feel like a child. And he's not a child. He definitely doesn't want Kurt treating him or thinking about him as such. Even so, he's not sure he's thinking entirely clearly when he asks, "I'd prefer that you show me, Kurt," Blaine says, an he looks up, forces his gaze and his words to be steady and firm. "Would you?"

Kurt looks stunned. "Oh, honey. Yes. That would be both my pleasure and my honor." He stands and offers Blaine his hand. "Let's go into my bedroom."

.

Even more than the public space of the apartment, Kurt's bedroom is a reflection of him. Here, the light is gentler, the surfaces more inviting, the colors less saturated, more subtly harmonious. Blaine stands still, looking at Kurt's bed and all the implications of being in the bed of another. A canopy drapes the bed, making it appear an inviting haven for both rest and physical intimacy. The palest blue sheets are folded back neatly from the pillows. They look like the finest, dense cotton for the way they gleam under the warm lamp light. Across the bottom half of the bed is a luxurious looking faux fur blanket in silver tipped white. "How do you imagine this going?" Kurt asks him. His hand rests upon Blaine's back as he stands behind him.

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking you to… show me."

"Well," Kurt says, and he moves to step around Blaine, to between him and the bed, and he turns to face Blaine. His fingers catch at the bottom edge of his loose black top; they begin to lift it up, baring the pale muscled planes of his lower belly. Kurt pauses in lifting the hem of his top. Whether it's in temptation or hesitation, Blaine doesn't know. "Do you want to watch me?" Kurt asks. He takes a step back toward the bed. "Or would you like me to talk you through touching yourself? Or something else?"

"Um," Blaine says unhelpfully.

In the absence of his answer, Kurt lets the hem of his shirt drop, reaches out an inviting hand, and says, "Let's just take it as it comes. Will you come lie down with me?"

Blaine presses his lips together, takes Kurt's hand, and nods.

.

Lying supine on Kurt's bed, even fully clothed—having lost only his boots and socks—Blaine feels watched again, and not by Kurt, whose attention is lightweight and patient as he stretches out beside Blaine on his side, head propped in his hand. The sense of being observed like some kind of lab specimen is hard to shake. The others will be asleep, surely, but Blaine knows that's not a true barrier to protect his privacy. Like the previous night, everyone will know.

He stares up at the wan light filtering through the lace canopy over Kurt's bed and frets over the decision he wants to make. It's a kind of rebellion he never thought he'd truly consider. But then, he never thought he'd be considering this either, physical intimacy with a man he just met. Marriage certainly hasn't been a priority in Blaine's thinking. He's know for most of his life that he enjoys the company of men, but he's not felt a desire to adopt a child with someone, and raising a family is generally the purpose of marriage. Plus, he's young, career focused. But this isn't marriage or an overture toward it. He reminds himself again: this is not a courtship but a strange variety of friendship. This is— A headlong rush into something new, something forbidden, something he wants more the more he tries to resist it.

It's only reasonable, then, to stop resisting and satisfy his curiosity. But that also means a level of secrecy and potential deception Blaine's never before considered. He touches his temple and his eyepiece deploys.

"Hey, am I losing you?" Kurt asks him.

"No," Blaine says. "Sorry, I just need to um."

Kurt frowns. "Do you have something else you should be doing?"

Possibly yes, but Blaine won't admit that. He explains simply, "I want to turn this off before we begin. To avoid interruptions."

"Okay, good. I don't want you distracted," Kurt says, oblivious to the fact that the true distraction is this thing they're about to do, wanting Kurt is his distraction.

Blaine gives his rig the command to shut down, clears the warning screen that advises him not to, and submits to a confirming retinal scan. Then he holds his breath as the projected view screen fades into transparency and the eyepiece folds back in on itself. Blaine blinks at the depth of the silence in his head, the way it expands in his psyche like the first cool breath of autumn at the end of a long summer. The background processing of the rig is never intrusive, but it's there, like a hum at a frequency just on the edge of hearing, or vague movement at the farthest edge of one's peripheral vision. It's gone now, and he's alone within himself. Unobserved by anyone but Kurt. He's with Kurt.

"All right," Blaine says, turning his head upon the pillow to look at Kurt's lovely, patient face. "I'm all yours."


	9. Chapter 9

"Wonderful," Kurt replies. He traces with a single fingertip the rim of Blaine's eyesocket, where the memory alloys making up the AR eyepiece now rest beneath his skin, quiescent and invisible. Blaine feels the pressure of the contact more than the fine detail. "You're so beautiful, Blaine. Has anyone ever told you that?"

As a child he'd been called beautiful; he'd been called a beautiful young man as he grew into adulthood, but the sentiment was usually a result of how he behaved and performed protocol, and what those performances said of his potential: his youthful manners at a formal dinner, his posture on a horse, his form with a fencing saber, his deferential grace as an escort for a girl or a woman. Kurt speaks to none of those things; he speaks to Blaine in a moment that bleeds into disarray and vulnerability, and Blaine can't comprehend it easily. He shakes his head. "Not… quite like this."

Kurt's lips quirk. "Tell me one thing you'd like right now. Just one thing, not everything."

"One thing?" Blaine asks. Upon his face, Kurt's fingers are light and soft-tipped, tracing a line down his cheek to his jaw. Blaine looks at Kurt, admires again the line of his neck curving sinuously into the arc of his bared shoulder. He doesn't fully understand why it tempts him to put his hand there. It seems too simple and inconsequential to want it as much as he does. It seems silly to ask, but he'll answer Kurt. "I'd like to touch you. May I?"

"Yes."

Reaching across the small distance between them, Blaine rests his hand over the bump of Kurt's shoulder. It's warm, hard, and smooth beneath his palm. He didn't expect otherwise, but the difference between intellectually understanding the idea of how something will be and the direct sensory experience of it are entirely different things. One, an intangible abstraction in his mind, the other, an immediate, wonderful phenomenon: touching Kurt, Kurt's skin beneath his own skin. Catching Kurt's scent as Blaine shifts up to his side—nearer—and moves his hand, sweeping down and back up the follow the line of his neck, his throat. The pulse of Kurt's heartbeat beneath Blaine's fingertips, the bob of his larynx as he swallows, the quiet puff of his breath. And a glance up to see the way Kurt lowers his eyelashes.

"You're very beautiful too," Blaine says, testing the words upon his tongue to better appreciate the exchange of them here in this context. The prickle of blood rising beneath his skin and the slowly curling desire in his belly—this time, Blaine doesn't resist it. He longs to understand it, what it is that his body wants—what he wants of Kurt and what Kurt wants of him. "And what do you want, Kurt?"

Kurt snags his bottom lip between his teeth and gives Blaine a smile (that Blaine understands now) brims with flirtation. "I want you to watch me," he says. "You can keep touching me—if you like. But I want you most to just watch me." Then Blaine looses the contact between them as Kurt half-sits and pulls his top off over his head, and Blaine is presented with his naked torso.

The light through the lace canopy makes an intricate pattern of translucent shadow upon Kurt's skin. The cameo pink ovals of his nipples strike a sharp contrast against the milk paleness of his complexion. Blaine marvels at the smoothness of him. His skin seems polished to a shine, hairless and sleek. It makes him think of the fine porcelain figurines his mother collected. "Look with your eyes and not with your fingers," she'd tell him.

"Okay," Blaine says—to the memory, to Kurt, to himself. He curls his fingers against his palms. "Watch and learn, right?" he says, trying to make it a joke, but his lips won't quite curve into a smile; they're numbed by anticipation.

"I already know you're a good student, Blaine," Kurt says, shaking his fingers through the mussed sweep of his hair before settling back against the pillows. His gaze doesn't flinch from Blaine's face as his hands slide down his torso in symmetrical arcs and come to rest at his waistband. Blaine follows the motion with his gaze and keeps himself still, though the gathering heat and heavy throb between his legs demands some kind of action.

Kurt unfastens his fly, and even though Blaine is determined not to look away in a childish burst of embarrassment, he has to shut his eyes and steady his breathing.

"You've seen a naked man before I hope?" Kurt asks, wry. "Other than yourself."

"Of course, yes, but…" Blaine opens his eyes, sees Kurt's hands are at rest, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his trousers. The outline of his erect penis is clear behind the thin fabric of his underwear. Blaine can make out the thickness of the shaft and the way the material is pulled taut over the crown of it. That's what he felt against him when they danced the previous night. The connection between his over-saturated memory and the physical fact before him makes him dizzy.

"Not quite like this though?" Kurt teases affectionately.

Blaine laughs through his sudden smile and his attention lifts back to Kurt's face. "No. Not quite."

"It's okay," Kurt says. He moves a hand to touch Blaine's arm, rubs up his forearm sympathetically. "This kind of thing was new for me once, too."

"Were you nervous?"

"More than I expected to be," Kurt says. "The man I was with was a few years older, and he had experience. I thought I knew a lot about sex—I thought I knew everything. I'd studied, after all, and I was sophisticated for my age—ready for all of it, but when it actually came to him taking me to bed and undressing me. I may have been ready, but I realized I didn't know a fraction of what I believed I did."

"The difference between an idea and its actualization in the world," Blaine says.

Kurt's eyebrows rise and he nods. "It can be unsettling, it can make us reevaluate ourselves. That's normal, Blaine. It's how we learn. Let yourself be open to the process, however you experience it. It's something I'm confident you understand from your work." Then Kurt's gaze flickers down to himself, and he runs two fingers up the cloth covered length of his cock. His eyelashes flutter and he tilts his head to expose his throat.

It's so inviting, Blaine shivers, but his mind catches on one word. "My work isn't so intimate, it's not about me."

 _It's not about me._ He hears his own words and they startle him cold with the full and sudden realization of just how far he's stepped outside the bounds of duty and responsibility. He's just turned his rig off, he's— What is he doing?

"Blaine," Kurt says, with strange emphasis Blaine cannot decipher, and then Kurt's shifting close and his hand is upon Blaine's jaw, and he's pressing his mouth to Blaine's, so soft, his lips parted, damp and warm and delicious. He kisses Blaine as if the kiss can banish the sudden doubt rising up from Blaine's conscience. He may be right.

Then there's a hot flash of Kurt's tongue at the seam of his closed lips, asking a silent permission. Blaine doesn't know how to resist it. He doesn't want to resist it, but he should. He should. Oh, gods, he should. He's on a mission, this isn't— But Blaine doesn't resist. He gives in, lets Kurt work his mouth open, welcomes the heat and slick slide of his tongue in, with more breath, more heat, and more hunger rousing in Blaine's blood to answer it and overwhelm his fear.

When Kurt withdraws, his lips shine, his cheeks are flushed, and his pupils are a wide and fathomless black. "This is intimate, Blaine," Kurt says low and rough in a way Blaine has never heard his voice. "And this is about you."

"I—" Blaine can't find a single word to follow.

"You," Kurt says, stroking Blaine's face, "are allowed to choose this. If you've changed your mind, I need you tell me, but if you haven't, I want you to know, Blaine, your body is capable of so much joy. You don't need to deny yourself your own being. This isn't a dereliction of your work, it's a celebration of yourself."

"Okay," Blaine says, and whatever reluctance remains within him yields to the truth he senses in Kurt's words. "I haven't changed my mind. I want this. To learn with you."

"I'm glad," Kurt says. "But I think…" Kurt contemplates him for a moment, and then leans in to coax Blaine to his back and Kurt braces himself above him. "I'd like to do this differently."

Blaine reaches up and touches Kurt's bare chest, sees the flush of his blood rising beneath his flesh, wonders at being the cause of it, and how the reciprocal of it aches so urgently in his own body. "How?" Blaine asks.

"Rather than having you watch me, I'd like to touch you," Kurt says. "I want to give you your first orgasm. Is that all right? Would you trust me with that?"

"Yes," Blaine says. With Kurt looking at him the way he is right now, Blaine could trust him with anything.

But even with that consent granted, Blaine still finds himself blushing and fidgeting beneath Kurt's attention. Kurt unbuttons his shirt and strokes Blaine's chest and belly while he presses more kisses to Blaine's face and neck, murmurs encouragement and praise. To have another's hand upon his bare skin, petting him as if he's a drowsy lap cat? Blaine understands why they purr.

And then it's entirely different when Kurt's hands slide down and tug open his belt and fly. The muscles in his belly clench, and Kurt kisses the anxious whimper from his mouth. "It's all right," Kurt says as he eases Blaine's pants down right along with his briefs, but Kurt doesn't look down to where Blaine is increasingly feeling overexposed. He keeps his eyes locked with Blaine's as his fingers curl around Blaine's penis. Then his grip tightens and glides up and back down, and it feels. It feels… "Ooh," Blaine says, long and low. This must be how it's meant to be.

"Like this," Kurt says, and his hand keeps moving, up and down, snug and even, squeezing tighter with each drag of Blaine's foreskin over the head of his sensitive glans. The contact that seemed too much to Blaine earlier is eased and enhanced by Kurt's technique, and Blaine gasps at the pleasure Kurt's hand elicits, sharp and so full, drawing together the heat so tightly in his testicles, his belly, and surging up to fill his chest and throat, to raise perspiration on his face and prick across his scalp. Just this one simple motion of Kurt's hand is enough for his whole body to respond. "This is a way you can touch yourself," Kurt says.

"I… understand," Blaine says, and he closes his eyes to better concentrate on the feeling. "Oh." He gasps at a spike of sensation that surmounts all the others. "Is this an orgasm?" Blaine asks.

"Not yet," Kurt replies with warmth. "You'll know when it happens," Kurt says. "You won't need to wonder."

"It feels so good already," Blaine says, and his legs have become restless, the muscles in his thighs and calves tense and strain within the tangle of his trousers around his knees.

"Mmm," Kurt says. "You're so lovely like this. I don't think it's going to take much more. Your body's been waiting for so long, you're so eager."

The pleasure keeps building with each pull of Kurt's hand on him. It gathers in his body like a summer storm, towering on the horizon, promising a deluge. It feels so close, as if he could put out a hand and grasp it. As if maybe he should.

It keeps growing, in fits and surges, less the storm itself than a rising tide as it comes ashore. It becomes nearly unbearable, and Blaine grows incoherent with it. Loses awareness of anything but the feeling. It's acute, like pain, except his body doesn't shy away from it. His body reaches for it greedily, stretching and striving and reaching until—ah—he finds the leading edge and it breaks though him in a rush of revelation.

It's as though every cell in his body contracts and then bursts into a shock of rapture so swift and strong, Blaine loses control of himself, his limbs, his voice. He quakes and twitches, grasps uselessly at the bedding and at Kurt—and he cries out. Pleasure pulls and pulses hard in his balls and cock, a hot outpouring of the excess. It surges wet and spills on his belly. It bleeds the strain of too much from his nerves.

And then it fades so gently, leaving Blaine wrung out, soft and malleable, to shift and settle back into the shape of himself. He exhales deeply as Kurt's hand releases him and slides over his hot skin and slack muscles. Soothing.

Blaine feels brand new as he breathes and cools and his heartbeat slows. His mind is peculiarly blank. Kurt kisses his cheek softly and nuzzles against Blaine's face. "That was an orgasm," Kurt says quietly. Then passes a span of silence measured only by the cadence of Kurt's caresses, until Kurt speaks again. "You did so well, Blaine. How do you feel?"

Simple praise and a simpler question. But it does something terribly complex inside him, for there's still too much of something within him, a tension unrelieved by the orgasm. Or perhaps something hidden, freshly uncovered by it, and left raw in its aftermath. A surplus of unnameable emotion wraps tight in his throat and stings his eyes. Blaine's vision blurs, he chokes on a sob, and he—

Blaine does something he hasn't done since he was a very small child: he cries.

He expects to be chided or challenged. He expects Kurt to respond with aversion, to correct the errant response Blaine cannot contain. He doesn't understand it, where this feeling is coming from or what is is, so he covers his face, ashamed, and does his best to regulate his breathing, to calm himself. But his lungs spasm and won't cooperate with his will.

And then, instead of being scolded—instead of disappointment, "Oh, sweetheart," Kurt murmurs, and he pulls Blaine close, into his arms, rolling them until Kurt's on his back and Blaine's head rests over Kurt's heart. With careful fingers, Kurt's pets through Blaine's hair and lets Blaine's tears fall against his skin. "It can be like that sometimes," Kurt says softly. "I know. But you're all right," Kurt says. "You're all right."


	10. Chapter 10

Eventually the pressure in Blaine's head eases, and the tears stop. His pulse slows to match the measured movement of Kurt's hands, and the strain in his throat and chest subsides. Blaine comes back to himself in pieces. Each is delicate and strange—familiar, and yet not. His perspective is changed; he had no comprehension or expectation of this, his own body revealing itself to him as something so surprising. It's like putting together a puzzle of a well known image, taking each thought, memory, and sensation, and fitting them back together to reassemble his sense of himself.

Beneath his cheek, Kurt's chest vibrates with a tune Blaine doesn't know. Kurt's been humming softly to him as he strokes Blaine's hair, neck, and shoulders. Kurt's body is warm and vital: the steady beat of his heart flutters palpably against Blaine's skin, the scent of him is fresh cologne mingled with a spicier trace of clean perspiration. Being close to another body like this draws at some deep ache in Blaine's chest. He's heavy within himself—must be heavy upon Kurt—and, Blaine realizes, it's not just his tears that are wet and sticking his skin to Kurt's. There's his sweat, too, and whatever emission came from his penis when he had the orgasm.

"I'm sorry," Blaine says. It comes out hoarse from his throat, which is still clogged with tears. Blaine coughs to clear it and pushes himself up.

"Oh, why are you apologizing?" Kurt asks. He sits up with Blaine and takes Blaine's hand in his own.

Blaine wipes across his eyes with his free hand, and he looks down at their interlaced fingers, then to the mess on his belly, smeared upon Kurt's skin too. "I, um," Blaine manages, and then he swallows hard. Words aren't coming easily, and he doesn't want to say the wrong thing. "For being messy," Blaine says, and tries to sniff as discreetly as possible. "I need to clean us up."

"No, that's— Blaine, the mess can be part of the fun. I'll take care of it, okay? You just… relax? All right?"

Blaine glances up, finds Kurt smiling at him, a small crease of concern between his eyebrows. Blaine doesn't want to cause Kurt worry, and his apology is unwarranted, so he nods. "All right."

Kurt leans away to the table by his bed, a panel opens and he retrieves a small towel. It's steaming and warm, and comes with a bright herbaceous scent. "Here," Kurt says, "lie back down for me?"

With a shaky exhalation and limbs that feel too stiff, Blaine complies, and Kurt brings the warm towel to Blaine's skin, wipes over his chest and belly with long, firm strokes. "So this emission is normal?" Blaine asks, gesturing at his groin.

"Yes," Kurt says, pauses for a moment. "It's semen, Blaine. It, uh, carries your genetic material. If you were trying to impregnate someone…" Kurt trails off, looking at Blaine's face for a sign of his understanding.

"Oh," Blaine says. "So it comes out even when you're not mating with a woman?"

"Mmhm," Kurt says, and he leans away to dispose of the towel and get a fresh one that he uses on himself. Then he fastens his fly back up.

"That's not very efficient," Blaine says, and he takes Kurt's cue to reach down to pull up his own trousers and underwear.

Kurt laughs. "Well, our bodies don't know, and I, for one, am grateful for that. It's part of the pleasure of an orgasm."

"It happened once when I was young. It happened while I slept, I woke to the mess," Blaine says; the memory is sharp for the humiliation of the discovery. His parents had seemed disappointed. "The next day, that was when my mother took me to the doctor."

"For the blockers?" Kurt says, and there's sympathy in his voice and his eyes.

"Yes."

Kurt bows his head for a moment and doesn't say anything. He looks unhappy; Blaine doesn't wish him to be.

"Have I said something wrong? Or am I asking you too many questions?" Blaine asks; he got teased at school for the latter: monopolizing the teacher's time with questions his classmates didn't care for.

"No, goodness, no," Kurt says, and he reaches back to Blaine, to cup his jaw with his hand. "Please, Blaine, feel free to ask me anything. It only makes me sad that you were denied knowledge of your own body for so long." Kurt smiles again, which is a relief. "But I'm so grateful we can share this now."

"So am I," Blaine says, and, feeling bold, he pushes himself up to his elbows and presses his mouth to Kurt's.

He feels the curve of Kurt's smile against his mouth, and then Kurt's lips soften and part and it's fantastic to feel the warm rush of Kurt's breath and the slip of his tongue. There's the newly familiar throb of heat and pressure between Blaine's legs, only now he understands the specific hunger. Kurt presses him back down into the pillows and doesn't break the kiss. Instead he deepens it and hums encouragement against Blaine's mouth. Blaine ventures to touch Kurt's face with his fingertips, to stroke gently into the hair by his temples.

With a contented sigh, Kurt eases back. "What would you like most with me in this moment, Blaine?"

"More."

Kurt smiles and runs his hand down Blaine's breastbone to rest low on his belly. "Shall we do it together this time?" Kurt asks. He undoes Blaine's fly again, pushes his hand in and rubs over Blaine's burgeoning erection.

Blaine groans and nods. He's not sure what precisely together will entail. Holding Kurt's cock in his hand is an appealing thought. He wants to feel it, and he realizes in a sudden rush of obviousness: he can give Kurt an orgasm, too.

But Blaine's hand on him may not be what Kurt has in mind, for he asks, "Remember how we danced last night?"

"I… do," Blaine says, trying to keep his hips still beneath the tantalizing friction of Kurt's palm.

"Music," Kurt says more loudly and in a different tone, addressing his computer system. He speaks a title and artist Blaine doesn't know, and then it's the same deep, slow pulse of music from the ballroom. Kurt rubs Blaine's cock with the same rhythm, and Blaine shivers pleasantly.

"I'm going to undress us both," Kurt says. "Is that all right?"

"Yes, yes," Blaine says, arching up against Kurt's hand as his head swims with growing heat and his body aches with the want of more. "Please," Blaine says.

Kurt pulls Blaine's pants all the way off until Blaine is lying naked and hard. Blaine looks down his nude body, sees the way his penis is flushed and thick and rearing up from his groin, stretched along his belly. And then Blaine looks back at Kurt who's kneeling up and pushing his own trousers down his thighs, then tipping to his back to strip them the rest of the way off, and Blaine gets his first look at Kurt's cock: smooth veined and a darker shade of the same pink as his nipples, even darker at the bared crown. Fluid beads at the tip of it, and Blaine wants to feel it.

Kurt beckons to Blaine. "Come lie over me."

Blaine rolls to his hands and knees and moves until he's over Kurt, one leg between Kurt's thighs, and Kurt hooks his ankle behind Blaine's knee, pulls him down until their hips press together.

All of their bare skin and body heat pressed together, Blaine sinks down into the sensation, and Kurt's cock is rigid and hot where it presses against Blaine's. It's more vivid than the other night; there's no barrier between them, just smooth skin and warmth and the way they're fitted snug against each other between the yielding flesh of their bellies. Kurt twists beneath him, coaxing a sharp frisson of pleasure as his shaft drags against Blaine's. "You feel so good," Kurt says, and his arms come around Blaine's shoulders. "Dance with me, Blaine."

"I— okay," Blaine says, and he rocks his hips down against Kurt. The intensity of the resulting sensation has him biting his lips against a pained sounding moan. A cascade of heat trips up his spine, blooms in his belly, and tightens in his balls.

"Oh, like that," Kurt groans in his ear. "Just like that, move with the music."

And so Blaine lets the beat of the music and the tightening of Kurt's hands on his back urge him into a rhythm of pushing and rubbing his cock against Kurt's, their bodies together. It's not exactly like dancing; gravity has him pinned against Kurt in a way that limits his movement. But it's more than enough. Soon their bodies are slicked with sweat, growing even hotter, and Blaine struggles to keep his motion timed to the music. The heat inside him is billowing into an inferno, demanding something quicker and rougher. Kurt moves with him, grinding up, panting and whispering praise, moaning his own pleasure against Blaine's neck.

"Kurt," he grits out. "May I… faster?"

"Yeah, come on, honey," Kurt says, and he slips a hand up into Blaine's hair, pressing his fingertips against Blaine's scalp and then fisting tight in his sweaty hair. "Fuck me harder, as hard as you want."

Blaine adjusts his weight, bracing himself on his elbows, and he does so, he thrusts against Kurt with more vigor and speed, and the friction between them builds to a hotter mind-bending burr. And Blaine comes to understand the unfamiliar word: fuck. It's this movement, of driving one's body against another's for this singular purpose of finding a climax, together. "Oh…" Blaine murmurs. It's not happening as fast as when Kurt masturbated him, and the greater stretch of time is allowing the tension to wind even tighter, for his body to burn brighter and hunger more.

"I'm close, kiss me," Kurt whispers. Blaine shifts again, faltering in the motion of his hips. His spine feels molten with the effort of this unfamiliar exertion. He kisses Kurt's open, breathless mouth, swallows the delicious sounds Kurt's making. He's kissing Kurt when Kurt has his orgasm. It can't be anything but that, for the way Kurt's whole body snaps taut against him, for the inarticulate cry that rises from Kurt's throat, for the hot pulses of semen between them.

"Kurt," Blaine says, lifting himself to see Kurt's face and wondering at his slackening mouth, his hazy eyes, his blood stained cheeks.

"Keep going," Kurt urges him. "Come against me," he says.

Kurt's semen makes everything slippery between them, and Blaine presses himself desperately into the slickness and heat and soon he can feel the crawl of his orgasm building up again and he reaches for it. It takes him just as Kurt's mouthing at his throat and combing his fingers through his hair and telling him to let go, let go, let go…

After, Kurt doesn't let go of Blaine immediately, he holds him against him and they lie in silence, sticky, hot, and sated. Blaine closes his eyes and waits for his body to calm, for more complex thoughts to return to his mind. For now, the second orgasm has stunned him back into a blank sort of clarity. All he can do is witness the understanding unfurl in his mind: this is sex. This is what he's been missing. This is what his body is capable of, not only within itself, but with another person. It settles deep into his bones like an indivisible and ancient truth of existence, now that he knows.

.

They must part eventually, for the necessity of cleaning up and Blaine's need to relieve his bladder. Kurt offers Blaine the use of his shower too, which Blaine accepts. Part of Blaine thinks he would've been content to have stayed in Kurt's bed for the remainder of the night, warm and safe in Kurt's arms. But alone in Kurt's bathroom, and freshly washed, Blaine stands nude before the mirror, finger-combing his wet hair back into order. His skin is still flushed with blood and his head swims with unfocused fragments of thought and sensation, with nothing wanting to coalesce into any significance beyond the present moment.

He pulls his clothes back on, and hesitates, his fingertips resting behind his ear. He needs to turn his rig back on. Hunter's report is waiting for him.

But not yet.

.

Back in Kurt's bedroom, the bed is made with fresh sheets and Kurt is gone. There's music coming from the living room, something gentle with an old world feel to the instrumentation, so Blaine ventures out. The dining table is cleared of their supper plates and food, and Kurt has set out on the table by the sofa a plate of tiny, colorfully frosted cakes and a pair of glasses of something pale and chilled. Kurt's seated on the sofa with a book in his lap.

"Blaine," Kurt says. He closes the book, stands, and comes to Blaine. He pulls him into an embrace. "Thank you for sharing yourself with me tonight. I enjoyed it so much."

"I did too," Blaine says, and he finds himself blushing again, at the memory of what they shared. How wanton he'd been.

Kurt kisses him again, his lips chastely, and his cheek softly—it's more affection than ardor. "Will you sit with me and have some chilled tea? Or do you need to leave?"

"I can stay," Blaine says, and they sit.

Kurt passes him a glass. "Do you mind if I ask you how you feel now?"

"I don't mind," Blaine says, but it takes him a little while to collect words to describe how this has all left him feeling. He's quiet as he sips his tea and searches for the insight required. Kurt waits, and Blaine finds a moment in his memory that's not dissimilar. "My very first assignment with the Ambassador," Blaine begins. "Was a six month space journey to a foreign territory, trade negotiations with the Hestari."

"Oh, the ones with the live maggots." Kurt wrinkles his nose adorably, and Blaine is certain he's never been this enchanted by another person's face.

Blaine laughs. "Yes, the ones with the live maggots."

"And that was your first mission ever?" Kurt's eyes widen.

"Mmhm. I'd never even been off planet before that, so that much time in space—just the trip to Hestari territory was nearly three months long on the Guild ship—non stop. It was all brand new. I was very excited."

"Talk about being thrown in the deep end," Kurt says, and he settles himself back into the corner of the sofa to listen. "I haven't traveled much myself," Kurt says. "Just between home and the Capitol. How did you manage six months?"

"There's not much to do on the Guild ships: they're not like this ship, there aren't any gardens or ballrooms. My quarters were small and I shared them with two others. But I made good use of the time I had. I studied Hestari body language all the way there."

"Oh, is it complicated?" Kurt asks as he nibbles at the edge of a cake. "I love their textiles, but I've never met any Hestari. They don't travel outside their own borders, do they?"

"No, they don't, so we always have to go to them. And, yeah, their body language is complicated. They don't have facial expressions, emotion is expressed through posture and scent, but human olfactory senses aren't as discerning or as sensitive as theirs. We had to carry chemical sniffers to help with that, but even then, their emotions don't translate directly into terms we—" Blaine breaks off, remembers what Kurt said at the reception. "It is we right? We're both human."

Kurt frowns, but his lips quirk with amusement. "Of course we are."

"Okay," Blaine says, and he files that away to think more on later. "So, the Hestari emotions don't translate into ours easily. It's mind bogglingly easy to miss important nuance or miscommunicate something just by standing or gesturing the wrong way—or wearing the wrong cologne."

Kurt nods and offers him the plate of small cakes. Blaine takes a sherbert orange frosted one. "That sounds challenging," Kurt says.

"Oh, it was, and not just because of that. When we got to our rendezvous with their ship, the Ship Mother was furious with my presence as part of the Ambassador's team for the negotiations."

"Oh no, why?"

"Because I was young," Blaine says. "She kept calling me— I'm not going to try to pronounce it right now, but it basically translates literally as youngling, and it's a derogatory term for their adolescent young."

"Okay," Kurt says and grimaces.

"See, in their species, higher cognition is very slow to develop, so adolescents are seen as too dependent and unpredictable. Incapable of reason."

"So they assumed you were too?"

"Yes, and—what made it worse at the time for me? The Ambassador knew this would happen, that they would be offended, but she didn't tell me. I knew about their attitude toward their own young, I'd done my preparations, but I'm a human adult. I didn't expect my age would be an issue. June— The Ambassador, insisted I attend the negotiations with her; it was her condition for them going forward at all."

"That sounds tense. What happened?"

"They relented, said I could sit with her, but then? She had me speak for her, as if she was proving a point. During the first meeting, she didn't open her mouth once, not even to advise me. I had to shoulder the entire negotiation based on what I understood her stance to be."

"Oh my goodness." Kurt covers his mouth with one hand.

"I know. It was a way to exert her power in the negotiations, and it turned out that her forwardness in asserting herself—and my position as her personal advisory assistant—won her more respect and helped us get a better deal. But it was also a way for her to test me. Because—the Hestari were right about one thing, I was very young. The Ambassador wanted to be certain that I had the mettle for the job. She told me later that she also wanted me to be as sure of myself as she was. Any doubts I might've had about being her aide were a waste of my energy. She needed me to understand that, and pushing me so hard in those first negotiations was her way of making me prove myself to myself."

"Were you angry?" Kurt asks.

"Angry?" Blaine blinks at Kurt. "No, not angry. Grateful, really. If she hadn't pushed me so hard, I might not have come to appreciate my own resourcefulness and ability under pressure."

"But what she put you through, Blaine, it sounds so harsh—and not to tell you everything you needed to know. I know you don't like that."

"I don't, it's true. But I trust her. It's— Well she'd say something about strength being both forged by and revealed through adversity."

"And you believe that?"

"I believe there are times it's true. That first mission was hard. I was so lonely and homesick. The entire time I felt like I was off balance, poised right on the verge of failing, swinging my arms desperately to keep from falling flat on my face."

"But you didn't fall."

"No. But I also realized that my job was very different from the daydreams I'd entertained myself with growing up. The adventure was real, but it wasn't the way I'd imagined it in my head. It was harder and lonelier, but also, ultimately even more rewarding. At the end of our mission, on the way home, the Ambassador told me she was proud of me and that I'd done well, and I really, deeply felt like I'd earned her praise, more than any other accolade in my life. It was… an amazing feeling."

Kurt's quiet for a long moment. He sips his tea and considers Blaine before he speaks again, "So this amazing feeling, is that how you feel now?"

"Oh, um, no not exactly. I sort of lost track of my point. I was going to say, after being in space for six months, when we finally returned home to Apathea? Being on the planet's surface again, breathing the air. It was all brand new, the same as it always had been but my perspective had changed so much, it was like I'd never even seen the sky before." Blaine smiles at the memory and at the man sitting next to him, listening with such interest. "I feel like that now, Kurt, with you, but within myself. I feel brand new."

"Oh," Kurt says, and his gaze upon Blaine softens, brightens, and warms. "Like coming home for the first time after a long, difficult absence."

"Yes," Blaine says.

"That's beautiful," Kurt says. "I'm flattered, truly, Blaine."

"It's funny," Blaine says, abruptly feeling self-conscious. He looks down and rubs the back of his neck. "I've never told anyone that story before. I didn't even tell the Ambassador how I was feeling about any of it at the time. I couldn't show her any lapse or vulnerability. I had to be everything she expected me to be."

"And were you?"

"Yes," Blaine says. He sighs deeply, tips his head back, and closes his eyes for a moment. A profound sleepiness gathers in his head. He covers his mouth as he yawns.

"Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

Blaine realizes he's lost track of the time entirely with his rig off. "No, I— Gods, it must be so late, and I have some reading I need to do tonight. I should get back."

"All right," Kurt says, and he stands. There's a thoughtful seriousness about him as he walks with Blaine to the door. "Blaine," he says, the line of his mouth somber and straight. "I want you to know—" He frowns.

"Yes?"

"I know we just met, and I don't say this sort of thing lightly—and I hope it's not too bold of me to say it to you now—but I like you, even more than I expected to. I'm very happy that we've met, that you've sought my company, and trusted me with yourself."

"You've made it easy," Blaine says, warming at Kurt's words. "I didn't expect I'd meet someone like you."

"I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow," Kurt says, and his blush is such a pretty pink across his cheeks as he smiles again. "Sleep well, Blaine."


	11. Chapter 11

Blaine leaves Kurt's rooms and pauses in the hall. Though he does need to do his work tonight, the urgency of that need has become somewhat abstract. Possibilities—or the possibility of possibilities—crack open in his mind, and the pulse of excitement grows restless in his gut.

The things he needs to do retreat as his desire kindles, not simply for the future possibility of Kurt's touch, but for the sense that there must be even more to learn, things about which he's not had an inkling. It's all out there, as big as the stars. It's hard to know what precisely to do with himself, caught in the grip of it all.

At the very least, he decides to find a different route back to the quarters he's sharing with the Ambassador. He hasn't taken an opportunity to explore _The Galactic Diamond_ on his own. The infotab provides him with a detailed interactive map that shows him where he is and offers him several different routes from his current position back to the guest wing. He examines each and finds one that goes through the Garden.

 _"It's where people go to make love in the evenings,"_ Kurt had said.

If Blaine goes that way and walks through it, what will he see? His breath catches and he flushes warm with a strange melange of curiosity, arousal, potential—and then his skin prickles with the sudden shame of entertaining such an improper thought.

He should go straight back. He should turn his rig back on before anyone has the opportunity to notice it's off. He should be dutiful and well prepared for the morning. He should put this growing interest in sexual education entirely from his mind. He learned from Kurt what he came to learn tonight. He satisfied both his curiosity and his goal. There's nothing more for him to inquire about to improve his understanding now. He should be satisfied.

But he's not. He wants. He wants deep in his bones, deep in his balls it seems. It's more than he knew he could want anything.

And doesn't the Ambassador occasionally warn him of this? That indulging his curiosity too much will rouse intemperate desires and disruptive feelings? Such things will add little to his happiness ultimately. They will lead him to stray from the focus of his life. He thought he understood what she meant. He wonders if she truly understands what it is to want something in this manner. She never married, never would have had an experience like the one he's had, would never have known someone so compelling and beautiful to her own heart and eye.

Until now, Blaine has never had reason to doubt her wisdom or tutelage. He cannot imagine finding contentment for himself without this newly discovered sustenance. It seems as essential to his body as food and shelter, and the person he was before he stepped into _The Galactic Diamond's_ airlock strikes him as a stagnant, malnourished sort of man, someone who was unsatisfied without even understanding that he was. The man he is right now fizzes with something new and vibrant. He's alive.

Blaine takes the route to the Garden.

.

He stands outside the entrance to the Garden. There's no door, just a broad open arch, framed by the graceful bend of cultivated trees. From their entwined branches hang clusters of bell-shaped flowers. They provide a soft rose tinted light and a delicate, seductive aroma. Beyond them, the Garden is deep with nighttime. The scent of it comes to Blaine, green and lush. Small bursts of golden light blossom, drift, and fade, lighting the pale stone pathways that wind off into sheltered groves and covered patios. He can hear the watery murmur of the stream in the distance. He hears nothing else immediately. Sees no one.

Blaine wonders if entering alone is appropriate; perhaps only lovers come together. He double checks the infotab. The paths through the Garden are a labyrinthine chaos. He can discern no pattern. Even with the guidance of the map, it would be easy to get lost. The ache in his heart and the warmth in his belly urges him to step forward. Perhaps getting lost isn't the worst thing that could happen to him.

His conscience urges caution, restraint, and a return to the familiar and the necessary. Attend to his duties first and always. His heartbeat flutters in his throat, rapid and anxious. At the threshold, Blaine hesitates. Then he blinks, lowers his gaze to the floor, and steps back.

Not tonight. He turns on his heel and makes his way toward an alternate route offered by the infotab. His heart still races as he taps his rig back on, and the barely audible hum of its startup provides a sense of reorientation if not relief. Regardless, he chastises himself for his cowardice, because that's what it feels like: he's given in to fear more than he's followed his duty. It twists unpleasantly in his chest, banishing the contentment left from his time with Kurt. Shame stings his eyes.

He turns a corner without paying much attention to the other people around him, doesn't even register the approaching footfalls behind him until a strong hand closes around his wrist and brings him up short.

"Mr. Anderson," Major Clarington says. "We need to talk."

.

Obediently Blaine follows the Major back to his quarters, but he does forcibly pull his wrist free of Hunter's grip on the way. Inside Hunter's quarters, Blaine stands—there's nowhere to sit in the spartan quarters but for a single stool that rests near a floating 3D tactical display. The floors are bare and the walls set to a uniform flat black. Blaine joins his hands behind himself and keeps his chin up. He doesn't lower his gaze, for he is not the Major's subordinate, and Blaine's not inclined to be polite. Hunter's abrupt treatment has Blaine simmering with irritation and a surprising amount of rebelliousness.

Major Clarington wastes no time on formalties. "Why did you turn your rig off?"

"Why are you even awake?" Blaine counters sharply—recklessly perhaps, but he's never been less in the mood for this kind of interrogation. "Shouldn't you be in maintenance mode?"

Hunter's lip curls into a mild sneer of amusement. "Nice, but no. My tactical rig is operating on reserve power, that reduces my required downtime to just over an hour." He moves to the stool and straddles it, facing Blaine. "Now tell me why your rig was off. It's not reporting a malfunction."

"Personal reasons," Blaine replies. "Previous security details haven't been that bothered," Blaine says. Which is not entirely true. He's never turned his rig off on a mission, but nor has he ever been questioned on his behavior by their assigned military. "And aren't you here primarily in an advisory capacity?"

"I can't keep you safe if you turn it off, Blaine." Hunter speaks slowly as if he's addressing a child.

"Safe?" Blaine asks. "You think I'm in danger on this ship?"

"Perhaps," Hunter says. "It's my duty not to blindly trust our hosts, regardless of what the Ambassador might think of them."

"And they've not earned your trust yet?"

"No."

"And what about me, Major. Don't you trust me?"

"You're hiding something from me," Hunter says. "So, unless you want to tell me your reasons for shutting down your rig for over two hours, my trust in you at this moment remains provisional."

"I won't tell you."

"Then I'll have to order you to hand over your logs for the hour preceding your shut down."

"You don't have the authority to order me to do that, Major. I decline."

Hunter slides him an evaluating gaze. Then he stands and makes a gesture toward the 3D starfield hovering in the center of the room. "Let me show you something," Hunter says, and he steps amid the slowly moving star systems.

"What does this have to do—?"

"This is about trust, Mr. Anderson," Hunter says. "I've been taking this opportunity to go back through various news reports, military analyses and records, and public statements from various officials regarding the conflict with the Charn. To get a better foundation for my analysis, you understand."

"Yes."

"When you read my report tonight, you'll see where I mention an incident in the Pieris system." Hunter cups his palm beneath a nebula shrouded system around a red dwarf star, and the display rotates and enlarges it.

"All right."

"Approximately five cycles ago, an Elyssian Peregrine scout was ambushed on a reconnaissance mission in the system. A Charn cruiser escorted by two auxiliary frigates was destroyed and the Peregrine escaped to tell the tale."

"Lucky," Blaine says.

"No one's that lucky," Hunter says.

"Okay, so what are you saying?"

"There are some discrepancies in the reports as well. There's something the Elyssians aren't telling us."

Blaine frowns. It's hard to imagine the Councilor being deliberately dishonest. "What exactly are you worried about?"

"They may have other reasons for trying to involve us in this war."

"Given the casualty reports, I doubt that. So a scout got lucky—maybe it had an experimental weapons system? Maybe the Charn were overconfident or incompetent. It's improbable, yes, but not impossible."

Hunter makes a non-committal grunt and sweeps his hand through the display to reset it.

"I promise you that my reasons for deactivating my rig are entirely personal," Blaine says.

"But you were meeting with Master Hummel. Your last location check placed you in his quarters. He works closely with the Councilor, does he not?"

"He's not part of her political advisory staff, he—"

"Kurt Hummel is a diversely skilled and intelligent man as well as the son of an influential politician. He may be other than what he seems."

"You're paranoid."

"You're being careless. I want to see your logs."

"No."

"I'll be speaking to the Ambassador about this in the morning. She does have the authority to order you to give me the information I require."

"Do as you wish," Blaine says dismissively, so that he doesn't betray his discomfort at the notion. He relaxes his stance and moves to the door. "I have more important things to attend to."

.

Back in his rooms, Blaine finds he has a message waiting on the infotab from Kurt: "How long ago was last summer for you?" it reads, and Blaine smiles: Kurt. The warmth of recent memory floods Blaine's body in a dizzying rush, and banishes the unpleasantness of his exchange with the Major. Blaine slips off his boots and relaxes on his bed. Whether Hunter manages to force Blaine to turn over his logs or not, he can't take this new friendship away from Blaine—or confiscate Blaine's experience of his evening with Kurt. He leans back into his pillows and answers Kurt's message, "Five months."

.

But Major Clarington makes good on his word. In the morning, when Blaine makes it out to the living area of the Ambassador's quarters, precisely thirty minutes early to prepare for the day, Ambassador Dolloway is already waiting for him. She says nothing at first as Blaine attends to pouring her tea and plating a sugar glazed fruit pastry. But after he hands the plate to her, she settles back in her seat and sighs heavily. Blaine keeps his attention on balancing the tongs neatly along the edge of the basket. He's rehearsed for this conversation in his mind, explaining that he cannot turn over his logs because an Elyssian citizen's privacy would be violated if he did. Without evidence of a crime, and the consent of either Kurt or a mandate from an Elyssian legal authority, Apathean diplomatic law protects Kurt, even if it doesn't protect Blaine.

"I've never had cause to take disciplinary action with you, Blaine," she says.

"Ma'am—" Blaine begins.

But the Ambassador raises a hand and cuts him off. "And I never wish to," she continues. "But you will take this conversation as a formal warning. If you turn your datarig off again without my express instruction or permission, while on this assignment, you will receive a note of correction on your permanent record."

"Yes, ma'am," Blaine says and his cheeks burn as hot as the tea in the Ambassador's cup. He straightens and looks ahead at the wall even as his stomach crumples. The weight of her disappointment combined with her leniency is a worse punishment than any order she could have given him. This he cannot argue against. He can only accept it.

"I grant you a great deal of freedom on these missions, Blaine. You're young, and I have little desire to constrain what personal time you have, but we are both bound the rules here. I need you to respect that."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and keeps his voice steady. He can feel the Ambassador's gaze on him, but he can't bear to look and see her disappointment.

"I won't be asking you to turn over your logs. I see no cause for that," she says as if reassuring him.

"Thank you," Blaine says.

Then she huffs an impatient breath. "Oh, come, boy, and sit down."

She hasn't called him boy since— Blaine can't recall easily. It's been a while. He obeys and sits, straight-backed with his head bowed in deference.

"Look at me, Blaine."

Reluctantly, he does, and finds the line of her mouth softened by a small smile.

"You're enjoying the company of the young Master of Hospitality, aren't you?"

Blaine presses his lips together and takes a deep breath before he answers. "I'm learning a lot from our conversations."

"I'm sure you are," the Ambassador says. "He's very handsome."

Blaine feels his shock register on his face. "Ma'am?" he asks, and his voice breaks with nervousness. She can't know, can she? It seems impossible.

"Everything here is so appealing, and it looks so easy, doesn't it? To partake?"

All Blaine can do is stare at her in stunned silence.

"But mind yourself, Blaine. Be sure that anything you choose to enjoy here is something the loss of which you can bear. However lovely things are, there is always a cost. Be sure you understand what it is and whether you are willing to pay it, before you put yourself in its debt."

It's somewhat cryptic, but, with an inclination of his head to acknowledge, Blaine replies, "I do understand."

"I hope for your sake that's true," she says, and then she reaches to select another pastry for herself. "Now, give me your take on this Pieris incident that's got Major Clarington so worked up."

.

After the morning meetings, Blaine checks his day's schedule. Lunch has been moved to the Garden, a change of venue from the previously scheduled promenade deck. It's to be an informal affair where they'll have the opportunity to meet with various representatives and citizens from the outer worlds.

The Apathean delegation enters at the upper level, onto the high plateau where Blaine glimpsed people dining on his first day. The tables overlook the wide waterfall. The stream runs under their feet, visible through a transparent floor, to the edge, where it tumbles down, free. Blaine is seated at a table with Councilor Wright and the directors of three mining expeditions to the fringes of Elyssian space. Their businesses are stalled, and they've lost personnel and equipment.

A mild breeze ruffles the floral centerpiece on their table, and Blaine idly casts his gaze about for Kurt. Sam served breakfast this morning, and Blaine's been assiduously taming his desire to see Kurt today. He can heed the Ambassador's advice that much. If he cannot comfortably endure a morning without even the sight of Kurt, then perhaps the friendship is unwise. So Blaine will learn to manage his expectations and his responses better.

But then he sees him, and all of his resolution to equanimity dissolves. Kurt's dressed like a sunrise. Fitted trousers in a shiny flame orange and an open-necked, high-collared shirt in royal yellow. The sleeves are short, and wrap tightly about Kurt's biceps. Streaks of turquoise blue highlight Kurt's hair and a fine band of copper mesh circles his throat. Blaine is caught, just as he's been every other time he's laid eyes upon Kurt.

Only now, his body has knowledge and memory of Kurt's. A glance at Kurt's smiling lips, the way his hips swivel as he turns, the broad strength of his shoulders, the flex of his arms, the nimble twist of his fingers as he uncaps a bottle of sparkling water—it all brings a disorienting rush of blood to heat the surface of Blaine's skin.

He breathes to calm himself and closes his eyes for a moment to find his balance. Then he does his best not to watch Kurt, as he makes his way around the Ambassador's table, filling glasses. Instead Blaine turns his attention to the Councilor. She's interested in his views on government service and how he came to them. "Many Elyssians view the details of governance as something best relegated to the politicians and bureaucrats. Unless something goes wrong or there's a scandal, few concern themselves with the work of it," she says. "They don't consider it their business. I'm interested to know how Apathea manages to cultivate such a high level of civic engagement and service."

So Blaine tells her stories of the model parliaments all children participate in at school and the prescribed public service all citizens enter when they reach the age of adolescence.

"Such service isn't voluntary?" Isabelle asks with a frown.

"No, Ma'am."

"Do you believe Apathean youth would choose to enter such service if it were not compulsory?"

"The majority would," Blaine replies. "There are always a few who resist, but the requirements aren't onerous. It gives every citizen a sense of pride in their communities, a sense of connection and engagement. Everyone's contribution matters."

"So each citizen is given the opportunity to feel that they share the work of government, in a sense? No one is separate from it?"

"I'd say that's a fair assessment," Blaine says, and then he can no longer avoid looking at Kurt, for Kurt is at their table now, pouring sparkling water into the Councilor's faceted crystal goblet. Blaine glances up and catches Kurt's gaze and his warm smile.

Kurt moves closer and leans over Blaine's shoulder to fill his glass. "Look up," Kurt murmurs.

Blaine does, expecting to see the honeycomb of structural supports and the flat glow of manufactured sunlight. Instead he sees a flawless expanse of deep indigo scattered with puffy vanilla-hued clouds. The colors are so immediately familiar they may as well be etched into his DNA. The sky is Apathea's. A longer look confirms it, for the bright glittering gem of Apathea's nearest sister planet, Ekratea shines above.

"How did you…?" Blaine asks. He's never seen anything like this on a starship—nor even on a space station.

"The dome is customizable. Usually it shows the sky over the Capitol, but five months seemed too long a time to go without a glimpse of your own sky," Kurt says. "I asked a favor from a friend."

"You… you arranged this for me?" Blaine asks.

Kurt hums and inclines his head with a pleased widening of his smile. "It's not the real thing, obviously, but—"

"It's perfect," Blaine says.


	12. Chapter 12

At the edge of the high plateau, Blaine stands staring down at the fall of the water. The ceaseless roaring rush of it down into the pool below transfixes his attention. It soothes. Lunch rests heavily in his stomach today, the richness of the menu—velvety soups, buttery sauces, and foods with crisp fried crusts—it's more than he's accustomed to. He sips a glass of a greenish yellow fruit juice, and its astringency helps ease his discomfort. In his peripheral vision comes movement and presence, withdrawing Blaine from his contemplation. He turns to see Tina, pretty in an eye-catching violet dress that's gathered at her throat and bares her shoulders. She carries a small plate of spice dusted chocolates, and she smiles as she offers him one. He declines.

With a shrug, Tina pops one into her mouth. She savors the mouthful with relish, which Blaine observes with curious attention. As much as he's been enjoying the variety and quality of the food, he's unsure his constitution is such that a regular diet of such luxury would suit him. His stomach grumbles a quiet agreement, and Blaine wonders if there's a discreet way to loosen his belt.

"Would you like to go down below?" Tina asks him once she's swallowed. "We could walk together."

"Oh," Blaine says, and hesitates. "Do you literally mean a walk?" he asks.

"Just a walk, I promise," she says, amused.

"I'd like that, but first I wanted to speak to Kurt about something. Would you please excuse me for a moment?" Blaine says.

"Ah, my stalwart competition," Tina says with sufficient humor and a self-deprecating roll of her eyes, that Blaine laughs. "It's fine, Blaine, I'll wait here," she assures him before waving him off and selecting another chocolate for herself.

Blaine turns and heads back to where the kitchen is. He expects to find Kurt doing whatever he does at the end of a meal service. As Blaine comes to turn down a short corridor leading to the kitchen doors, he hears Kurt's voice ahead of him. But the tone of it makes him halt and step back. It's not Kurt's professional voice, but his intimate one, a soft playful murmur. Blaine cannot easily discern the words from this distance. It roots him to the spot, and his breath catches in his chest.

Then another man's voice replies, speaking more quickly, cajolingly and—if Blaine understands correctly—flirtatiously. The white shock of that numbs Blaine's mind for an instant. With a frown he wills himself to turn around and leave. He's not one to eavesdrop, but he doesn't recognize the voice, and a dread filled curiosity overrides his sensibilities, urging him to look around the corner.

A quick peek shows Kurt standing in the middle of the corridor, his back to Blaine while he speaks to an intent-eyed blond man in a white chef's jacket. They're standing close, their heads bent near. The blond man's hands are upon Kurt's neck and upper arm, and Kurt's hands are at the man's waist and beneath one of his elbows. Blaine hears Kurt's laughter at something the other man says, and then Kurt bends his head and releases the other man, who then shrugs and leans closer with a tilt of his jaw. And Blaine doesn't wish to witness anymore of this exchange.

A chill sinks in Blaine's belly, solid as a stone. Quickly, he backtracks to the plateau. Whatever he saw, it's none of his business. Of course Kurt will have other friends, some of them intimate. Like Elliott. Isn't that how it is here? The Elyssians are different, free with their bodies and affection. Blaine's got no right to the wrinkle of unease in his belly, or the cold creep of—what? He shouldn't feel so affronted; it's not rational.

And yet, he does, for the unexpected wave of disjunction between what he thought he understood about Kurt and what he apparently still doesn't, even though he shouldn't be surprised. He knew enough to anticipate this, surely. But knowledge isn't always understanding, he concedes to himself with chagrin.

He spies Tina where he left her, and he waves as he approaches her, forces himself to smile his best smile. Turns his attention to her.

"You okay?" she asks him with a sly smile and a raised eyebrow. "You look flustered."

"I'm fine," Blaine says. "Shall we?" he asks, and offers her his bent arm.

.

They walk in silence for a while, beneath the arching trees. The cool breath of the breeze, gentled by the foliage is welcome. Blaine tips his head back and looks up through the lattice of branches to the sky Kurt made for him, and he reminds himself that Kurt did make it for him. That must mean something. A yellow bird darts overhead, and it shines so brightly against the indigo, Blaine blinks reflexively and turns his attention back to the path.

Ahead of them, upon a white blossom laden branch perches an iridescent blue bird, singing cheerfully. "Are they real? The birds?" he asks Tina.

"They are," she says. "They're bred especially for this environment."

Songbirds on a warship—it's bizarre. He expected they'd be some technological marvel. "Are they happy living here?"

She considers the question with a thoughtful crinkle of her nose. "They have everything they need," she replies. "And they don't know any differently, so I'd say yes." 

Blaine nods and they continue to walk, following a branch off the path that leads through beds of colorful flowering shrubs, and the swaying heads of what he's sure are daffodils. It's springtime in a bottle.

There are others here, and this time he doesn't look away when he sees people together, touching, kissing, and embracing. It's all fairly chaste he realizes, shared moments of affection and connection—nothing like what he saw at the dance, and nothing like what he imagines may happen here at night. Which leads him back to what his mind cannot seem to avoid.

"May I ask you something about Kurt?" he ventures.

"Looking for the dirt, huh?" Tina says with a grin. "I could definitely tell you some stories."

With a chuckle Blaine replies, "No, nothing like that. I just, um. Earlier? I saw him with this other man? Blond in a chef's uniform? I guess I was wondering… who that might be? They looked very familiar with one another."

Tina purses her lips and frowns in thought. "Oh," she says after a long moment. "Adorable and energetic?"

Blaine shrugs. "I only caught a glimpse of him."

"It was probably… hmm. Chef Kiya's saucier. Chandler I think his name is? Kurt was bedding him last week, so yeah, that's probably who it was."

"Oh," Blaine says as his pulse leaps and he goes cold all over again at the confirmation of his fear. (But is it fear? He can't tell.) "Bedding as in—?" He wants to be sure he's not misunderstanding.

He receives a strange look from Tina. "Taking him to bed. You know, sex?"

"Right, of course," Blaine says quickly. "I wasn't familiar with the colloquial use of the word. " He forces a smile that feels horribly fake, and he gives in to his insistent dreadful need to know, for knowing seems preferable to ignorance: "Is he still?"

"Oh, grief, Blaine. I don't know? I don't even try to keep up with who Kurt's with anymore, because he's, well—there've been a lot of very lovely boys in his bed. But I doubt it? He usually keeps his affairs brief."

"Does he?" Blaine asks, and he assiduously refuses to let any particular thought form in the wake of that revelation. He won't assume. He shouldn't.

Tina nods. "Is that—?" She looks at him, confused. "You came here with Kurt the other night, didn't you?"

"Um, no?" Blaine says. "There was a misunderstanding, and we didn't in the finish."

"Oh, that's too bad," Tina says, as they stroll past a pond with crimson and black spotted fish swimming lazily.

"Why do you say that?" Blaine asks.

Tina lets go of Blaine's arm and crouches beside the fish pond. She turns her head and looks back up at Blaine. "You seem like the kind of guy he'd really like. Sweet and earnest, and," she adds with a hopeful smile and direct gaze, "so very cute."

"Are you flirting with me now?" Blaine asks.

"The depends, do you want me to be?"

"Oh, I…" Blaine blushes and looks away. Tina is lovely, and she has a manner about him he's enjoying. She's frank and refreshing in a way that forces him out of any complacency. But he's not certain he can think of her that way, the way he thinks of Kurt.

"Sorry," she says as she moves to stand up again. "It's okay if you don't."

"It's fine," Blaine reassures her, offering his hand. "I'm not used to this." Blaine tilts his head and considers what to tell her. He doesn't want to tell her about Kurt, because he's unsure what he could tell her. Or what would be appropriate. He's too unsettled by the uncertainty of what their relationship even is. A very brief affair or a new friendship? He doesn't like the way the worry nettles at his heart. "I've been celibate my whole life," he says at last.

Tina's eyes widen and her mouth forms a small 'o'. She lets Blaine pull her up. "Oh, I didn't know, but now that you say it, that explains a lot."

"How so?" he asks.

"You're kind of uptight, you know?" she says, and then adds quickly, "Not that there's anything wrong with that! I mean, it's great if that's what you want to do. I just couldn't do it myself. No sex seems like such a drag." She rolls her eyes.

Blaine laughs.

"You should talk to Mercedes though. She's the same way. She's been saving herself for marriage. Poor Sam, though. That guy's really devoted."

The personal gossip is discomforting enough Blaine makes no comment, but he makes note of the information.

"So what do you do for fun then, Blaine," Tina says. "It can't truly be all work and no play for you? You've got to unwind sometime?"

"Well," Blaine says, thinks. "I do enjoy my work. I spend free time extending my studies. I also exercise and meditate to relieve tension."

Tina makes a derisive sound. "Those are far too constructive. You must have crazier things you do to blow off steam, something that's just for fun?"

"I like music, um, to perform?" Blaine says. "But I don't have many opportunities to practice. It was an interest I explored more when I was young."

"Music, huh? Me too." She brightens. "Do you play an instrument? Or sing?"

"Yes to both," Blaine says. "I played the piano growing up and would sing to accompany myself. My family used to enjoy my performances."

"Past tense?" she asks. "Does that mean you gave it up?"

"I became an adult, and I no longer had the time," Blaine says simply, to dodge having to explain the reasons in more depth, for he senses Tina would argue with him if he did tell her that such pursuits are, in Apathea, considered childish. And it's then that his rig dings with an alert. It's ninety minutes until the afternoon session.

"And speaking of time," Blaine says. He reaches behind his ear to quiet the alarm. "I was hoping to use the gymnasium before the afternoon meetings begin. It's been lovely talking with you today, Tina." He gives her a short bow.

"Likewise," she says. And then, as he's walking away, she calls out, "Hey, Blaine?"

He turns. "Yes?"

"There are pianos on the ship, you know," she says with a cock of her head that's almost shy.

"Oh?"

"I'd love to hear you play sometime. We could sing together?"

"That sounds— I'd like that," he says. He loves her smile.

.

Blaine pushes himself into a workout with single-minded focus. He refuses to let his thoughts stray beyond the demands of breath, balance, and motion. After the rowing simulator and a circuit of weight training, he finds a sparring dummy, and runs through a basic practice form of kicks, punches, and feints. He hasn't dedicated very much time to the maintenance of his martial skills since leaving the Academy. Today, it's a satisfying meditation and release for his body, even if he ends his workout with aching knuckles.

In the shower after, he has less luck keeping disruptive thoughts and questions from surfacing. It's as if his doubts and fears have their own voices, and he's grossly misjudged so many things in his restless desire. It's led him to confusion. How does he untangle it?

.

On the way back to his quarters, Blaine remains disoriented. He knows neither how he's supposed to think or feel about Kurt being with this other man, nor can he find a place to anchor himself to begin working through an understanding. What's actually true here? What can he rely on outside himself to work his way to a solution. Is there anything? None of the rules or standards of his world apply here. If they did—if they _had_ —he wouldn't be in his current situation, lost and unsure of how to find his way back to clarity. He knows neither what he wants (within the realm of what may actually be possible) nor what expected of him. He can't even guess at what Kurt wants. He thought it was more than this though.

Is he meant to pretend he doesn't know about Chandler—and potential other brief affairs? Act like he doesn't care if that's what this is between him and Kurt? If the Elyssians truly value honesty, can he share his discomfort? Can he ask Kurt for... what exactly? For Blaine to be more? It's not a question that even makes sense in this context. Kurt may not view what he and Blaine shared last night as anything more intimate than sharing a meal. The recollection of what had seemed so intimate and important—life altering for Blaine, but merely a pleasant trifle to Kurt—makes Blaine flush hot in sickening realization of his own foolishness. He cannot undo what's been done.

And then, "Blaine!" It's Kurt's voice, behind him. Blaine runs his hand over his hair. It's still damp from his post workout shower. He stops, turns, and closes his eyes at the inevitable response from his body. It's becoming exhausting, losing that portion of his self-discipline every time he sees Kurt. And he resents the irritation and indignation that fuse and crawl under his skin. The combination is unwelcome and disorienting.

"Yes?" he asks cautiously.

"Hey," Kurt says, and his smile is bright and wide. "I'm sorry I missed you after lunch. I'd hoped to catch up, but I saw you walking with Tina. She told me you'd be at the gym."

"Just on my way back," Blaine says.

"I wanted to ask, how are you today?" Kurt asks, stepping close into Blaine's personal space; he runs his hand up Blaine's arm to his shoulder. "Do you have time to… dally?"

Even though Blaine expects the rush of warmth and dizziness at Kurt's proximity, he keeps his breathing even. "The next meeting is in half an hour," Blaine says. "I don't wish to be late."

"Mmm, that's more than enough time for something quick and satisfying." And Kurt's fingers are at his collar, tugging it open, and Kurt's body is warm and inviting, moving closer into contact, pressing Blaine to trip a step back until his back is against the wall. Kurt's lips skim his cheek, smooth and soft. "You smell so good," Kurt whispers. "I've been thinking about you all morning."

The back of Blaine's head collides with the wall and Kurt's lips catch at his earlobe. Blaine shivers and forces his eyes to stay open. "I'm sure that's not true," he says, and gently pushes at Kurt's shoulder. Even without his present reservations, the corridor is not a place for this. They could be seen by anyone. "Please, Kurt, wait."

"We can go somewhere else," Kurt offers. "The spa's not far from here, they have private rooms. I could help you relieve any…" Kurt's hand drops to his waist, his fingertips skim lower, a fleeting caress. "…tension left over from your exercise?"

Sudden laughter bursts up Blaine's throat, bringing with it a tinge of hysteria, and Kurt presses closer again, as if invited by the sound. It's all so shameless and brazen, and neither Kurt's words nor his touch are making Blaine feel special.

"Please, Kurt, I shouldn't—" Blaine says. "Not like this."

Kurt's hands leave his body and he steps back. Cool air wafts between them, and Kurt's expression is drawn into concern. "Shouldn't? Does that mean you can't or you don't want to?" Kurt asks.

 _I don't know?_ Blaine wants to say, for part of him wants Kurt to interrogate him until he understands his own distress and ambivalence better, wants Kurt to tell him what this all means, and wants to know what he means to Kurt—even as he dreads the truth. But instead he blurts out an unintended question with the force of accusation: "Who's Chandler?"

"What?"Kurt's head jerks up. "Why are you asking me about him?"

Blaine swallows and stares up at the tapered arch of the corridor above him. Its pearlescent glow is steady, but he is not. He swallows again before he speaks, forcing the words out before he can repress them. "Tina said you were bedding him. And I… I saw you with him, after lunch."

"Tina said—?" Kurt sighs. "I wish she wouldn't." Kurt steps back and Blaine risks looking at his face, sees his scowl.

"Only because I asked her. Was what she told me wrong?"

With a shake of his head, Kurt replies, "No, but…" Kurt sighs again. "Look, Blaine, I'm not oblivious to how this all may seem to you, and I wanted to talk to you about it. The right way, not like this."

"You looked very intimate when I saw you with him."

"You're upset about this. I understand," Kurt says, but Blaine's not convinced he does. Mutual understanding may be impossible here, and Kurt's tone rankles instead of soothes. Blaine doesn't need to be talked down to. 

"Are you still with him?" Blaine asks. "Did you, um…with him this afternoon?" He cannot make himself say the words to fill in the question.

Kurt shakes his head. "No. He asked me if I was interested in being with him tonight. I told him no, I was content with how we had left things, and I had plans with someone else."

"With me?" Blaine asks.

"I hoped so, yes. I want to take you to dinner tonight, and maybe to the Garden after, if you wanted to do that."

Blaine drops his head and his gaze. "Tina also told me you like to keep your affairs brief."

Kurt swears softly, words Blaine doesn't know, but the manner of delivery tells him enough.

"Was she wrong?" Blaine asks.

"This may not be the best place for this conversation. I know you haven't much time," Kurt says.

Blaine nods and resignation grows dense in his chest. The Ambassador warned him. He's been ignorant and wrong and mistaken and—

"I meant what I said last night, Blaine. I like you. A great deal." Kurt's hand ventures back, a light touch on his arm, an attempt to draw his attention.

"I believe," Blaine begins, turning his gaze back up to meet Kurt's eyes. He speaks firmly. "That means very different things to each of us. I'm sorry, Kurt, but I'm not sure I'm still interested in pursuing…" Blaine trails off for lack of a word to name what this experience with Kurt has been. A brief affair that he mistook for the promise of a deep connection? The realization that he may only be for Kurt a pleasant and transient diversion? His inability to name it must be a reflection of just how misguided he's been. And isn't it so often hope that leads him astray? Hope, here, that this was something to enlighten, enrich, and somehow—against reason it seems—endure?

"Blaine," Kurt says, pained. "There's been a misunderstanding. Please, can we talk about this later, when we have more time? We can have dinner, and we can talk."

"No, thank you, Kurt. I don't think that's a good idea."

Kurt's expression freezes into an unhappy acceptance of Blaine's rejection, and Blaine sees how the warmth leaves Kurt. His eyes grow guarded, he speaks more stiffly. "All right," he says. "But if you should change your mind, let me know. I enjoy your company."

Blaine blinks back the heat in his eyes, for he knows he can withstand a regret more easily than a loss.


	13. Chapter 13

Throughout the afternoon meetings, the rhythm of the conversation in the conference rooms slips over Blaine's concentration. His mind keeps ticking back to Kurt, last night, this afternoon, their conversation in the hall. A sickness curdles in his heart, an unfamiliar form of regret, sad and wishful. Heavy. Blaine works hard to keep returning his attention to who's speaking, to noting down new details, to thinking through implications and repercussions. He's aware of Major Clarington, and how his calculating gaze rests on Blaine from time to time with a sourness that makes Blaine prickle with even more anxiety.

Blaine offers comment when asked, earns the Ambassador's approval via her a tight lipped smiles, and shares the occasional sympathetic glance of camaraderie with Trent when the Ambassador interrogates him for the nuances in his translation. No one mentions the Pieris incident, and there's a lengthy, dispiriting conversation about the logistical problems of planetary evacuation. Apathea has agreed to send guild ships to assist in the relocation of Elyssian citizens, but it's still less than what Elyssia needs. Blaine's energy drains, moment by moment.

In the break, Kurt is there, to serve tea and tasty bite-sized treats, both sweet and savory. And every time Blaine looks at him, he wants to say something. He wants to reach out to apologize for— He's not entirely sure what. He only knows that Kurt's not looking at him, not sending him quick private smiles, not leaning close enough that Blaine feels the heat of his body upon his shoulder, and that lack feels so much sharper and harder than the regret. It's making Blaine feel itchy on the inside—irritable and disjoint from himself and his environment. Putting a stop to this dalliance was meant to make work easier. But it's still so fresh in his memory and his heart. He hasn't had time to incorporate and process the unfamiliar experience and its attending emotions.

So Blaine excuses himself from the room. In his peripheral vision he sees Kurt glance up once, briefly, but nothing more than that. He finds the closest restroom and locks the door. Critically, he stares at himself in the mirror. His uniform, face, and hair are perfect. There's no outward sign of his internal malaise. He's expected to see something, but he's practiced at this presentation. That at least is something to feel good about: he's not reflecting too badly on his office or that of the Ambassador. 

The bathroom is small, refreshingly cool, but its dimensions are adequate to Blaine's working through some simple standing stretches to clarify mind and body. After, Blaine holds a hot damp cloth over his eyes and breathes deeply until he feels balanced within and without.

By the time Blaine returns to the bright warmth of the conference room, Kurt and his staff are gone, leaving behind only the scent of coffee and Kurt's cologne. Blaine tells himself the disappointment in his chest is nothing more than the folly of reflexive hope. He gets back to work.

.

Once they finish for the day, Blaine joins Trent and Nick for dinner in their quarters. A young man Blaine's doesn't recognize serves them a simple meal: fragrant steamed black rice, a mildly seasoned vegetable stew, and a salad of raw nuts and fresh cut fruit. Sitting in the darkened room opposite Trent, Blaine relaxes. His closes his eyes as he chews, concentrates on the basic nuanced flavors of uncomplicated food, and visualizes it nourishing his body. Come morning, he'll feel himself again. He holds the thought as his mindful will and intention, not a mindless hope.

But then after the dishes are cleared and Nick's shuffling a deck of worn cards (he prefers to play with the physical artifact rather than a tabletop simulation), Trent presents them with a slim bottle of pink wine and three glasses. He smiles encouragingly. "I hear it's good," he says. "Do you want to try it?"

Normally under these circumstances, after hours with his colleagues, safe enough from potential mishap, Blaine would sample such a thing. Not for the purpose of intoxication but to inform his curiosity. But tonight making such a choice is fraught with recrimination of himself. A bottle of wine shouldn't be a metaphor for a person, and yet, Blaine wonders. If he's questioning Kurt's motives, what about his own? Was he only trying to sample something, to slake curiosity more than thirst, only to end up intoxicated? Caught in the thrall of something stronger than he anticipated? Are his misgivings about Kurt an attempt at rationalizing his own mistakes?

Nick declines, and Blaine uses that as an opportunity. "Thanks, Trent. Maybe another night? I'm going to try for an early night." 

When Blaine pushes himself back from the table to stand, his entire body is leaden and resists rising. Maybe he overdid it in the gym, but he hasn't felt this out of sorts since his first year away from home. He wills it to pass. He's tired; he just needs sleep.

.

Back in his quarters, Blaine pulls out the infotab Sam gave him. He contemplates sending Kurt a message, but he has no idea what to say. Should he apologize? And if he does, then what?

The worse thing is how, now that he's alone, he yearns to not be. He aches for Kurt's attention, his smile, his touch—the feeling of safety Blaine had last night, of being laid open, seen, and accepted. The pleasure of the orgasm was intoxicating, yes, but it was more than that: relief and connection. Could something he experiences as so profound and true be false? Does his ability to deceive himself run so deep? It's hard to know where to place his trust. Himself, his own moral education, Kurt? Where?

To divert himself from such fruitless questions, Blaine browses through the library of Elyssian literature, music, and cinema arts. He can at least learn without risk here. And yet, he finds himself wondering which are ones Kurt enjoys. Which are his favorites? But Blaine reads nothing, watches nothing, listens to nothing himself. He can't find a place to start, and he doesn't feel like bothering Nick to ask for recommendations—that would surely come with commentary critical enough that it would adversely color Blaine's experience. He could message Tina, but he doesn't have her address. He could ask Mercedes or Sam for it, but—

But? He just doesn't want to. Against all reason and clear thinking, he wants to see Kurt. He wants to understand. Maybe he can't walk away this easily. Maybe he's not supposed to.

He checks the messages on his infotab again, in the vain hope there may be one from Kurt, something for him to respond to rather than initiate. There's not.

And Kurt had said, _"if you change your mind, let me know."_ Which means Blaine needs to be the one to renew communications between them. If that's what he wants. If he's changed his mind.

Unfortunately, Blaine doesn't know what state his mind's in right now, whether it's truly changed or not. He only knows that he may have made a mistake. It's strange to miss a person he's only recently met. Kurt did want to talk, and Blaine can give him that much. He wants to.

So Blaine gets up, dresses again in casual slacks and jacket, and he heads out on his own. He doesn't let himself hope he'll find Kurt in his rooms. It wouldn't be unreasonable for Kurt to be off at the dance or gone to the Gardens with some other lovely boy. Blaine prepares himself to return to his rooms without seeing Kurt. But he needs to make this effort.

.

Fortunately, shortly after Blaine presses the chime by Kurt's door, it sweeps open. Blaine's smile is immediate and sincere, though the open door reveals a Kurt with drooping damp hair and glassy, red-rimmed eyes. He's dressed in loose black pants and a fuzzy red sweater. But even disheveled and raw looking, he's beautiful enough to strip all the breath from Blaine's intended greeting. Blaine bows his head instead, contrite and patient.

"Blaine?" Kurt says, wonderingly and hopeful. The absence of anger or disappointment pulls Blaine's attention back up. Movement over Kurt's shoulder catches Blaine's attention.

It's Elliott, standing up from a seat on the sofa. He's frowning in concern, and Blaine's heart leaps. He catches a lungful of air, to inquire then, "Am I interrupting?"

"No," Kurt says and his lips bend into a shallow, weary smile. "I'm glad to see you."

Elliott looks from Blaine to Kurt. "Do you want me to stay?"

Kurt shakes his head. "Blaine, please, come in," he says and steps back so Blaine can.

"Hello," Blaine says to Elliott, who nods at him. He's got no idea what else to say. Elliott's dressed the same way he was at the meetings today, which eases Blaine's initial rush of anxiety. He tells himself he's got no right to judge anything here, but it doesn't stop his relief. He wonders the extent to which Elliott may be judging him, but Elliott's looking at him kindly, which makes Blaine feel even stranger.

Then Elliott hugs Kurt, tight and long, and kisses his temple. "I'm not far away if you need me," he says.

"Thanks," Kurt replies.

It's awkward then after Elliott leaves. Blaine stands, resisting the urge to smooth the seams of his jacket and he asks, "Were you, um, talking about… me?"

Kurt waves Blaine toward the sofa and goes into the adjacent kitchen space. "Yes, we were."

Gingerly, Blaine sits on the sofa, perched at the edge of it. "So were you're crying… because of me?"

"Story of my life," Kurt replies over his shoulder with a careless shrug. A cupboard door thumps softly, and glass clinks. And seeing Kurt distressed and simultaneously dismissive of his distress, inspires Blaine to soothe. But it's so unfamiliar to see someone so overtly upset, he's not sure he knows how to navigate this.

"I'm sorry," he offers. "But I'm not sure I understand."

"It's not the first time my heart's sprinted past my head, Blaine. It's all right." Kurt comes back over with two glasses of tea. His smile is lopsided and self-deprecating. He passes one to Blaine and sits beside him. "So why did you come?"

"I missed you," Blaine says, as honestly as he's able.

Kurt laughs and sniffs and wipes his eyes. "You missed me?"

Blaine nods, shifts up straighter and leans forward as he sets his glass on the table. It feels very bold when he reaches out and puts a hand on Kurt's knee. "I'm sorry for before, in the hallway, Kurt, I want us to be friends."

"Friendship is important," Kurt agrees. He puts a hand on Blaine's bent elbow and stares down at it. "Some say it's the most important thing. I tend to agree."

"I'm just very confused about the rest."

"Yeah, I know that, and I really wish Tina hadn't—"

"It's not her fault that I asked her about you instead of waiting to speak to you directly. She didn't know about us," Blaine says. "She wasn't being unkind to you."

"No, she wasn't." Kurt looks back up and he turns his hand, offering Blaine his open palm. So Blaine lifts his hand from Kurt's knee and places it in Kurt's. With a stronger smile, Kurt folds his fingers around Blaine's and squeezes as he continues. "What she told you was true, but it's not all of the truth, and it doesn't reflect how I feel about you. I knew we needed to talk, Blaine. Last night was intense and unplanned, and I wanted to tell you some things before you had reason to doubt me."

"I don't understand."

"I'm sorry if you're hurt," Kurt says. He's still smiling, but his eyes glisten.

"But you didn't do anything wrong," Blaine says, because surely if there is fault here, it's his own failure to anticipate and prepare for all possible outcomes.

"I don't know about that," Kurt says, and he looks down. "I was so enchanted by the idea of you, I got caught up in the romance of it and, well, last night I—"

"Romance?" Blaine asks.

Kurt nods and sniffs. "Yeah, I mean, getting to be the first person to… turn you on, kiss you, touch you," Kurt says. "It's... a rush for me too, and I don't take it lightly at all. I hope you understand that, Blaine. You matter to me." He looks up, and strokes across Blaine's knuckles with his thumb. "How you have this experience matters to me, not just in the moment, but afterward—how you'll carry the memories. I never wanted to cause you regret or pain."

"Last night," Blaine says carefully, making sure of his words as he speaks them. "I didn't do anything last night that I didn't want to do, or that I didn't enjoy. You didn't take advantage of me. Any doubts I've had today are my own responsibility."

"Are you still having doubts?" Kurt asks.

"Maybe, but I didn't want to indulge them in ignorance, confusion, or fear. You said you wanted to talk. So that's why I'm here, I guess. To listen."

More happiness light's Kurt's eyes. "You want to know something? I've always enjoyed love stories that begin like this."

Blaine wants to ask Kurt if this is a love story, what's happening between them, but it's too much to say, so instead he says, "Will it surprise you to know I've never heard a story that begins this way?"

"Don't you tell love stories in Apathea?"

"Not like that. Marriage relations are very formal and private, and courtship is a highly structured ritual."

"Courtship?" Kurt's eyebrows rise in interest. "You'll have to tell me more about this, so I know what you may've been expecting from me."

Blaine blinks. "Are you saying you were aiming to court me?"

"Well, I'm not sure what this all means to you, but you're definitely not a fling for me."

"Fling?"

"A brief affair. Like I had with Chandler."

"Okay," Blaine says slowly. "But courtship is… um? It's done with the interest of eventual marriage. Not all courtships are successful, but they all begin with that goal in mind."

"Oh, well." Kurt frowns. "Then, ah, that's…?" He blinks furiously and looks utterly confounded for a few moments, and then he bursts into laughter and covers his mouth. "Oh, Blaine."

The laughter is contagious, Blaine presses his lips together to restrain his sympathetic response, but he fails miserably and laughs until his eyes water.

Kurt leans into him as he gasps for breath, and Blaine puts his hands on Kurt's back and shoulders and wonders, even as he wipes away the moisture from his eyes, what they are to be to each other.

Eventually Kurt calms and clears his throat. "I'm so sorry," he says. "It's not the idea of marrying you that— Well, it's just that there's a rather large space between fling and marriage, don't you think?"

"I know," Blaine says, reluctantly bringing his hands back to his lap as Kurt sits up and leans back against the arm of the sofa. "I was just realizing that I don't actually know where we are," Blaine says. "I don't have any kind of script for this."

"Most importantly, we're friends, Blaine, that much is true for me, anyway." 

"Yes," Blaine says. "That's true for me too."

"And beyond that? Maybe it's up to us to make our own rules."

"I think... I think I'd like that," Blaine says, and the words warm his heart with surety as he speaks them. "Yes, I'd like that," he affirms.

"So," Kurt starts. "Can you tell me what this means to you, Blaine. Or what you want it to mean?"

But the question is difficult. The space between friendship and courtship used to be a clear, stark line for Blaine, but now it's broken into something with such an amorphous shape, Blaine can't comprehend it. And if Kurt's speaking primarily about their physical relationship—sex—what kind of meaning does he assign to that specific intimacy. Is pleasure its own end? Or is this about the other sense he had—the acceptance and safety. Is that part of Kurt's experience too? Is that how it's meant to feel? But Blaine doesn't wish to assume anything. "Mean? I don't know how to answer that question," Blaine says.

Kurt studies Blaine with a thoughtful twist of his mouth. "No one's ever talked to you about any of this, have they?"

"No," Blaine looks down, embarrassed again by how evident his ignorance is. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Please don't ever apologize for not knowing or understanding, Blaine. It's not your fault you've been kept so innocent of these matters." Kurt shifts closer and takes each of Blaine's hands in his. "I want you to feel free to talk to me without worrying that I'm going to judge you for anything."

Blaine nods. "Honestly, I don't even know where to start."

"Okay, well." Kurt says. "I'll tell you something my father told me when I was young." Kurt joins Blaine's hands between his, presses them together close between his palms. "This kind of intimacy between two people, it always means something. When we make love, we're stripped down to our barest selves, and in that vulnerability, we have a responsibility to one another. Do you understand?"

"I…" Blaine looks at Kurt, to see what more he can find in Kurt's candid gaze. Kurt's describing the feeling he had, lying naked and spent in Kurt's bed, but the implications, for Kurt, Blaine doesn't know. "What does it mean to you then?"

Kurt's smile is soft. "It's different, depending on who I'm with. But do you remember when I said sex is compassionate and generous? That's a lot of what it means for me. It's about connecting with someone, and it's about caring for them. Taking care of them, and letting yourself be cared for."

"Even the brief affairs?"

"Yes. I always want to leave someone better than I found them."

"And when… um, when you first asked me to go to the Garden with you, were you intending that to be brief? A fling?"

"I didn't expect it to be more than that, but then? Things change."

"What changed?"

Kurt shrugs. "You are you, and I am me, and something about you has captivated something in me. I want more than a few blissful nights with you, Blaine. I want to know you, and I want you to know me."

"But we don't have that much time together, Kurt. Even if both of us want… more. It can't be very much more than this, can it?"

"We're making our own rules here, Blaine. What do you want with me?"

"I don't know," Blaine says, buying himself time to piece the words to the feelings of unfamiliar and inchoate desire. "More than a fling," he says. "I think.... I want as much as we can possibly have."

"Okay," Kurt says.

"But…" Blaine ventures, less certain now of what he's asking for. He's out of his depth. Kurt speaks of these matters as if they're as common and obvious as breathing, but for Blaine, the thought of intimacy with one person is daunting enough. Sharing himself with more than one person? He doesn't understand how he could do that, and so the thought of Kurt being with others feels discordant. "I'm not comfortable with the idea of you being with others, if we're intimate." He glances into Kurt's eyes to see how his words have landed. "Even Elliott. I know he's your close friend, but the thought of— I'm sorry, maybe it's selfish of me, but I don't think I can do that."

With an affectionate sigh, Kurt says, "No apologies, Blaine, I want you to tell me these things. It's okay. Elliott and I are, above anything else, friends. Neither of us has a claim on the other. It's a while since I've been monogamous, but—"

"Monogamous?"

"Um, practicing monogamy with one another? It's just a word for sexual and romantic exclusivity."

Blaine nods again. "I understand."

"Would you prefer that with me?" Kurt asks.

"Monogamy?" Blaine asks. The unfamiliar word has a weight to it that sounds like something so much bigger than an intimate friendship, something that's more like courtship. Even though it can't be, even though it is what he wants.

Kurt nods, "If, during the time we have together, we're exclusive to one another, is that what you want?"

"Would you be happy with that, Kurt? I won't pretend I understand how this all works for you, but if it's important to you to be with others? Just because I can't—"

"Blaine," Kurt says, to cut him off. His smile is gentle. "I want you so much, and if you would be most comfortable with monogamy, then, believe me, I'll absolutely be happy with that."

You want me?" Blaine repeats.

"Mmhm," Kurt says, and he leans in close, hovers just beyond Blaine's lips. It makes Blaine ache to close the distance. "I want you," Kurt repeats, and the timbre of his voice weights the word with all the glorious unnameable things Blaine craves.

"Oh," Blaine says, and barely a trace of breath carries the single syllable, though it feels like an epiphany, settling hot in his bones and bright in his mind.

"May I have you?" Kurt asks, and he leans in to cross the scant distance between them.

"Yes," Blaine whispers against Kurt's lips. 

Kissing Kurt makes Blaine want to drown the way he does in his dreams. He parts his lips to invite Kurt's tongue, and he whimpers when he gets it. The burn of his desire feels so intrinsic and ancient, like it's part of his deepest foundations. 

"Please, have me," Blaine says, when Kurt breaks the kiss. "You can have me," he says more urgently, fumbling with his limited vocabulary to put words to all the desires being with Kurt reveals. They've been like half-formed specters haunting the dusty, darkened shadows of his mind. But Kurt's flung open the shutters, let in the sun, and blown away the dust. Blaine touches Kurt's cheek and searches his darkened gaze. "Take me to your bed? Please?"

Kurt stands up and offers Blaine both of his hands. Wordlessly, Blaine goes with him, back to Kurt's bedroom.

On the bed, Kurt unfastens their clothes and undresses them both as they kiss. He whispers against Blaine's skin, "You have me too, you know," he says. "Don't be afraid to do something or to ask me for anything or—"

Blaine reaches down and wraps his fingers around Kurt's cock.

"Ah!"

He moves his hand much like Kurt had done to him—or as best as he can manage. Kurt kisses him hard and pushes eagerly into the rhythm of Blaine's hand. "Oh, that feels so good." Kurt mumbles against Blaine's lips, his breath comes in rapid puffs.

Encouraged by the praise, Blaine squeezes harder, making Kurt groan.

"Oh my stars… Blaine. You're so… keen. But… mmm, I have an idea?"

"Okay," Blaine says, slowing and loosening his hand. Kurt shudders and gasps. "Tell me what to do?" Blaine asks.

"Here," Kurt says, and he rolls them over. "Straddle me?"

Blaine does, and he feels so exposed, poised upright over Kurt while Kurt gazes at him with such heat in his eyes. The intention in Kurt's gaze threatens to flay him open. But the rub of Kurt's hands upon his thighs soothes, reminds Blaine that he's safe here, that when he comes apart, Kurt will put him back together.

Kurt takes Blaine's hand and wraps it around Blaine's cock. "Will you touch yourself for me, Blaine? I'd like to watch you get yourself off."

"Oh," Blaine blushes hot. He hasn't actually done this yet on his own. Kurt releases his hand, and Blaine keeps it where Kurt's put it.

Kurt's palms run up and down his sides, gentle as they continue over his hips and down his thighs. "You're so beautiful," Kurt says. "Do you want to show me how you touch yourself?"

Blaine sees how dark and focused Kurt's eyes are on his hand and his cock; he sees how much Kurt wants him, and Blaine shivers with the pleasure of being the focus of that intense desire. "I want to try," Blaine says, and he firms his grip on his cock. As he strokes himself, even and tight, just like Kurt showed him, he watches eagerly how Kurt's breathing catches and hastens, how he snags the edge of his bottom lip between his teeth.

And then Blaine startles with a rush of heat when Kurt arches up against him while tugging him down so that Kurt's cock rubs against Blaine's ass.

"Settle yourself a little?" Kurt instructs, and Blaine lets his weight sink, with Kurt holding his hips and guiding them both until his erection is nestled right between Blaine's buttocks and Kurt's eyes roll back beneath his next slow blink. "That's perfect," Kurt exhales on a sigh, and he rocks his pelvis up in short thrusts, timed to the motion of Blaine's hand.

The silky glide of Kurt's penis is a hot and intimate shock, pressing between Blaine's buttocks. The solid thickness of Kurt's cock is vivid as the silky soft skin of it drags past his sensitive anus. It's unexpectedly compelling, how simultaneously delicate and huge that small touch between their bodies is. Blaine pushes down against the contact, riding a tight arc with his hips as he tries to keep a regular, quickening rhythm of his hand upon his own cock. It feels good, tight and hot in his belly and balls.

"Oh, Blaine," Kurt groans. "You're such a quick study… Do you like this?"

"Yes," Blaine gasps. "Yeah." Sweat prickles at his hairline. He's furnace hot. Kurt's fingers dig into his hips and Kurt moves with him. The end of Kurt's cock nudges beneath Blaine's balls, and Blaine rolls his hips back farther to elongate the drag, then forward again, grinding down, fascinated by the enthusiasm of Kurt's response.

"Ah," Kurt says, staring down to where his cock is grazing beneath Blaine's testicles, the flushed, wet head of it peeking from beneath their heavy hang. "Oh… there's… so many things I want to do with you… so many things I want to show you."

It's Kurt's words that send him arching into his orgasm and spilling hot over Kurt's belly. It's just as stunning at the first time. Blaine crumples, shuddering, into Kurt's arms.

He comes back to himself with Kurt kissing his face, and Kurt's hands slipping around his shoulders. Kurt breathes hard, but his hips have fallen still. "Touch me, please?" Kurt asks. Blaine fumbles between them to find Kurt's cock and takes it in a tight fist. It's an awkward angle for his wrist, but he manages, somewhat clumsily, to pull up Kurt's length, squeezing and stroking, rubbing his palm slickly over the very tip of it.

Kurt swears, strains against him, and comes, pulsing a hot gush of semen into Blaine's hand and gasping into Blaine's ear.

"Wow," Blaine exhales, and he lets Kurt pull him down to rest upon his chest. Blaine feels the slick mess between them, and finds he's not in a hurry to deal with it. He settles and shifts against Kurt, feels the wet ooze of it. He's not sure if he likes it, but it's not uncomfortable for the moment. He pillows his head into the dip of Kurt's shoulder, and closes his eyes.

"Okay?" Kurt asks, trailing lazy fingertips down Blaine's sweat damp spine.

"Yes," Blaine replies, he shivers at the pleasant tickle of Kurt's touch, wonders at how newly sensitive his skin feels beneath it. "You?"

"I'm wonderful," Kurt says, and he stretches beneath Blaine. It's so good being close like this, feeling the tension and flex of Kurt's body, the unyielding lines and angles of bone, the mobile pliancy of muscle. The raw physicality of it—how very much Blaine becomes aware of his own body as a body, of Kurt as an embodied person—is startling.

It's both obvious and yet not for all the ways Blaine has spent his life not thinking about this very basic and true thing. His physical form is not only life support for his mind, or a tool for carrying out high-minded intentions through action, but also this corporeal entity with sense and sensation of its own, which yearns for its own expression and satiation.

He feels then, extremely, vulnerably, irrevocably _human_.

Kurt kisses his cheek and quietly asks, "What are you thinking about?"

"Hmm? Oh. Being… human," Blaine replies, lifting himself up to his elbows. With his desire for Kurt eased for the time being, he contemplates Kurt's handsome face and the sweetness of his smile, and Blaine lets himself wonder out loud, "How is it possible that we both are?"

"Human?" Kurt asks, and there's the bemused tone again, as if Kurt's unsure how this isn't completely obvious to Blaine. He runs a finger along the edge of Blaine's hairline, catching the curls that have come free. It's such a tender touch.

"Yes. I knew our species were similar, but I didn't know we were the same."

"How is that even possible?"

"The seven ships?"

Blaine huffs a short laugh and pushes himself up. "That's a story for children, it's not history."

"But it is!" Kurt says, shifting up against his pillows. "Elyssia was settled by the refugees on the generation ship Colombia. Apathea, our historians agree, was settled by those from the Aurelia. How do you not know this?"

"How can you claim to know it?" Blaine stretches to reach the panel where he remembers the hot towels were. It pops open with a gentle press and Blaine retrieves a fragrant, steaming cloth. He wipes down Kurt's torso first, and watches Kurt's eyelids flutter in contentment.

"We have the ancient computers from the Colombia preserved, all her data, and much of the ship herself," Kurt says. He reaches and takes a fresh towel, gently rubs it over Blaine's sensitive, softened cock.

"You're serious."

Kurt glances up at him before returning his attention to cleaning Blaine. "When we get to the Capitol, the Elyssian Museum is on your itinerary. You'll see it for yourself then."

"Oh?" Blaine shivers and feels an inquisitive heat flare in his belly, feels his cock pulse beneath Kurt's careful attention.

"Your government insisted on that," Kurt says. "It was a condition of their agreement to the negotiations."

"Was it?" Blaine drags a fresh cloth over his own belly and sets it aside.

"That's my understanding," Kurt says, and there's a promising kink at the edge of his smile, and Kurt's still rubbing his cock, even though the need for it has passed. And Blaine's getting hard again—and more than a little breathless.

"I thought… um, oh… politics weren't your purview?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "It may not be my job, but I take an active interest."

"Because of your father?" Blaine asks. The pleasure builds strangely now, coming in short, sharp stutters and spikes, but a slow heat grows at its foundation.

"Well, considering I encouraged him to enter politics in the first place, it may be more accurate to say because of myself." Kurt tosses the towel away and takes Blaine into his naked hand.

"Really?"

"Mmhm, I ran his first campaign," Kurt says casually, even as his attention is fixed hawk-like on Blaine's face. "We hired Elliott for his re-election campaign. That's how we met."

"You didn't mention… uh… any of that the other night." Blaine feels like his spine is about to buckle from the way Kurt's touching him now, his fingers are so nimble, slowly slipping Blaine's foreskin back to bare his glans and then tugging it forward, stretching and rubbing it over the head with a clever roll of his wrist. It's almost too much to bear, but Blaine wants to bear it.

"Should I have? It didn't seem especially interesting," Kurt continues, and amusement warms his voice.

"Um, ah, Major Clarington said you were diversely… skilled." Blaine's head lolls back, and his hips jerk forward.

"Why is Major Clarington talking about my skills? And why are we talking about him, Blaine? Is something not meeting his standards?" Kurt is playful and calm, but Blaine feels Kurt's cock surge against his inner thigh.

"No, no, nothing like that, oh gods, Kurt."

"Good, because I suspect there may be better uses for my mouth than talking, don't you?"

Blaine's agreement is barely a word in either of their languages.


	14. Chapter 14

Birdsong inexplicably wakes Blaine. Gentle light falls upon his closed eyelids. Warmth behind him and movement. A hand on his shoulder, lightly smoothing down his upper arm and taking the sheet with it. A kiss, then. Soft lips and breath on the side of his neck, the tickle of hair against his ear. The birds' voices multiply and increase in volume: a melodic jumble of trills, chirps, and bell-like warbling. Blaine opens his eyes to a sunrise.

"Good morning," Kurt murmurs against Blaine's skin.

The sunrise is painted on the wall Blaine faces as he lies on his side in Kurt's bed. It's an illuminating gradient from buttery yellow to limpid blue to the deeper steel remnants of night. The sun has not yet broken over the horizon. Silhouettes of trees stand before the light. Even knowing it's a simulation doesn't detract from its splendor.

"Good morning," Blaine answers, and he stretches as Kurt moves closer until they're pressed, bare skin to bare skin. It's the most luxurious sensation, the ease of sleep-fogged repose, the comfortable closeness, the smooth warmth of Kurt's body.

Kurt hums against Blaine's shoulder blade and his hand drifts over Blaine's chest. The sky brightens and blushes, and Blaine flushes warmer when Kurt's fingertips circle a nipple and the semi-hard curl of Kurt's cock against his buttocks pulses and shifts, growing harder. It's early enough, Blaine doesn't need to get up yet. The first bright sliver of the sun breaches the border of land, streaming bright, so Blaine lets his eyes slip shut again, listens to the birdsong, and gives himself over to Kurt's touch.

"How are you feeling?" Kurt asks him, his hand having trailed down to Blaine's belly. His fingertips stroke idly along the line of hair below Blaine's navel.

Memories of last night filter back in response to both the question and Kurt's caresses. Sense memory rouses more heat in Blaine's body. His penis throbs and thickens, and he remembers vividly the night before. It all happened just hours ago.

Kurt had pushed him to his back and hovered over him with a gaze so sharp, it pinned Blaine, breathless and helpless. "I'd like to put my mouth on your cock. Is that all right?" Kurt asked, and his hand resumed its maddening slow play over the head of Blaine's penis.

Never had Blaine heard of or imagined a person doing such a thing. But with the nimble work of Kurt's fingers bringing such an urgent need for more substantial contact, a sober evaluation of the proposed action was impossible. The only thing Blaine could say was, "Yes."

The recollection catches in Blaine's lungs as he tries to answer Kurt's present question with more eloquence. He steadies his breath. "This is a nice way to wake up," he says.

Kurt smiles against his shoulder. "With me or the sunrise?"

"Mm, both?" Blaine says, and he twists his head to try to catch a glimpse of Kurt. Kurt lifts up and leans over to meet him, kisses the corner of his mouth.

"Keep your thighs together for me?" Kurt murmurs, and he moves his hand low between them.

"Okay," Blaine says.

Kurt guides the wet tip of his cock down between Blaine's buttocks, and Blaine shivers at it, ticklish and pleasurable—startlingly so as it nudges past his anus—and intimate. And then Kurt presses forward with more force and his cock pushes its way between Blaine's thighs until it just grazes his balls and Blaine gasps at the bright shock of heat that floods his body. Kurt moves his hips in a single slow-measured thrust.

"May I fuck you like this?" Kurt asks, and reaches around to take Blaine's cock in hand.

"Yes, whatever you want," Blaine says.

Kurt laughs softly. "We don't have time for all of what I want, but… mm. I do enjoy a good morning quickie." He picks up a rhythm between Blaine's thighs that push-pulls Blaine's cock within his firm grip.

"I'm definitely… uh… enjoying what you're doing," Blaine says.

It's not long before Blaine comes, so easily, swiftly overwhelmed by how his body responds to Kurt's. Kurt holds him close through his orgasm and after. Blaine hangs in bliss while Kurt drives himself more emphatically against Blaine's body, and—even sated—Blaine relishes Kurt finding such pleasure with him, of using their bodies together to create and share this physical joy.

After Kurt's climaxed, wet and hot between Blaine's thighs, and after he's caught his breath, he doesn't pull Blaine into an embrace to lie together in the relaxing cool down, but instead he shifts up and asks Blaine, "Come shower with me?"

.

Kurt's shower must be designed for sharing. It's spacious and there are two extra jets for water that Kurt turns on. No one else has bathed Blaine since he was a young toddler, but it's easy to relax into Kurt's hands, scrubbing a rich lather over his body, massaging shampoo into his hair, and even washing his genitals without any discernible intention to arouse.

Blaine remains calm and content until Kurt soaps between his buttocks with a bare hand and lingers at his anus with a warm, slippery fingertip. It's possible Kurt's just being thorough, but the way he's looking at Blaine's face is curious, and the motion of his finger slows into deliberation. It feels so strange in its delicate, thrilling compulsion.

"Are you enjoying this?" he asks Blaine, pressing more firmly.

"I… oh," Blaine shivers and blinks water from his eyes. "Um?"

"Some people like it, but not everyone," Kurt says conversationally. "It's okay if you don't, but it's also okay if you do."

Blaine lets his head list forward to Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt just keeps up the slow circling rub around his rim. "Do you like it?" Blaine asks with a whisper that's barely audible over the rush of the hot water.

"I do, but I'm more interested in how you feel about it."

"I think so, yes?"

Kurt turns his head and presses a watery kiss to Blaine's temple. "Good. It's something we can explore together later, hmm?"

"Yeah," Blaine exhales against Kurt's wet skin and Kurt reaches to detach one of the nozzles and rinses them both off.

.

Blaine dresses and smooths his hair as best he can. He'll return to his own rooms to finish preparing for the morning. He still has over an hour, and it's an unexpected pleasure watching Kurt get himself ready for his day.

The care Kurt takes in selecting and considering his clothes and accessories is like watching a kind of a meditation in motion. He ends up in white trousers made from a cloth so fine they're translucent, and all the seams are visible against Kurt's skin—as is the line of his briefs cutting across the swell of his backside. It's hard not to stare.

With the unsettlingly revealing trousers, Kurt pairs a bishop-sleeved shirt in iridescent royal purple. It's, in contrast to the trousers, a more opaque fabric that holds its saturated color vividly. Over it, Kurt dons a black waistcoat embossed with a sinuous botanical pattern. It laces tightly up the back, accentuating his slim waist and broad shoulders. Polished black heeled boots follow, a scarf of silver satin knotted at his throat, and a sparkling orange brooch of a fish upon his breast.

.

Once Kurt is dressed, they sit at Kurt's small dining table sharing strong bitter coffee mixed with steamed milk, a sweet yellow bread, and fresh fruit. Kurt offers to make Blaine a poached egg or hot cereal, but Blaine declines. He'll eat a more substantial meal with the Ambassador later. With a warm smile, Kurt splits a wrinkled red fruit with his thumbs and passes half to Blaine. It has a fuzzy bitter skin, but a luscious sweet flesh. "You're thinking again, I can tell," Kurt says, and he sucks the juice from his thumb.

Blaine's cheeks heat and he looks down at his mug. It's both disconcerting and rewarding how well Kurt can read him. "Yes," Blaine says. "There's been a lot on my mind."

"Work or us or…?"

"A little bit of everything," Blaine says, and he starts with the easy things. "Was that the sunrise from the Capitol?"

Kurt shakes his head. "No, that was home on Lima, the view from my bedroom in the house I grew up in."

"Ah," Blaine says. "So that's your sky?"

"Yes, it is," Kurt says. "It's ironic. When I was growing up there, it all felt so dull and small and stagnant. The largest city, Pax Colombae, was a three hour trip on the vactrain and less than a tenth the size of the Capitol. I was overjoyed to get away from Lima. But once I moved to the Capitol and started traveling with the councilor, I became homesick for the quiet of it all. So it's become a good way to start the day for me." Kurt shrugs. "As well as a reminder of where I come from."

"Are you homesick still?"

"Not as much as I once was. But I do sometimes wish…" Kurt trails off with a wistful exhalation and a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "I've been away for a few years now, and I'm worried about losing it altogether before I have a chance to return. Home is still home."

It's the first time Kurt has spoken directly about the war as it impacts him, and Blaine wants very much to be able to reassure him. But there's nothing concrete or certain he can share with Kurt. "I hope you're able to return sometime soon then," Blaine says. "It looks beautiful and restful."

"Only for a holiday," Kurt says. " Don't get me wrong, it has its charms," Kurt says. "If you're into wide open sky and pursuing the quietly industrious idyllic life."

Blaine laughs. "I don't know, I might enjoy that," Blaine says. "For a little while anyway." He catches Kurt's eye. "They must be doing something right on Lima, if such a place produces someone like you."

With a grin, Kurt ducks his head and his cheeks color prettily. "You're certainly getting better at flirting, Blaine." Then Kurt looks at him with something shyer and more candid in his gaze that Blaine hasn't seen before. "I wish I could take you home with me for a holiday," Kurt says. "We could spend weeks with nothing to do but make love to each other, enjoy all the amazing local food and wine, and go for walks under the sky and stars together. The wildflowers in the growing season are such a spectacle. We could go then. We could take picnics and make love in the meadow under the lilac trees."

It's a lovely fantasy, but it comes with a sharp stab of sadness too, "I doubt we'll have time for that," Blaine says.

"Oh, don't spoil my daydream with too much reality, please," Kurt says, but he's still smiling as he refills his cup.

Blaine nods in acknowledgment of Kurt's words, and considers his reply with care. "It just reminded me of how little time we do have together," he says. "This is—what's between us—it's so finite, Kurt." he says. "Of course, we can correspond after I return to Apathea, and I hope we do, but this time spent together, it's not long at all. Certainly not enough for me to see Lima with you. Realizing that's impossible? I suppose I'm wondering how I'm going to say goodbye to you, when the time comes."

Kurt's smile diminishes, but it doesn't vanish. It becomes more tender, if anything. "That's a lot to be thinking about at breakfast," Kurt says softly. "I prefer to focus more on making the most of the time we have than prematurely grieving for the end of it."

"The Ambassador advised me not to pursue anything the loss of which I couldn't bear. So I'm only trying to prepare myself to lose you. It's… a way to avoid pain," Blaine explains.

Kurt frowns. "That also sounds like a way to avoid happiness," he says.

"You think so?" Blaine says. "But life has enough trial and difficulty, isn't it better to not add to it if we can help it?"

With a wry shake of his head Kurt replies, "It's a matter of balance, Blaine. Do you want to know how I'll feel when we part? I'll be sad, of course I will be. But most of all I'll be grateful."

"Grateful?"

"Look, Blaine. We have the next four days until we get to the Capitol, and then the five days you're there, and then the journey back. It's enough time for us to enjoy each other and make many wonderful memories. And isn't that one of the best things we can do for each other and our lives? Pursue good experiences that leave us with good memories?"

"Oh," Blaine says. "I hadn't thought about it that way."

"And now you have," Kurt says brightly.

.

Back in his quarters, Blaine does his hair and changes into a fresh uniform. It's so much quieter in his solitude after being so long and close with Kurt. The dark colors and muted lighting are cold and stark, and the coarse synthetic wool of his tunic is harsh under his fingers after the silken heat of Kurt's body. The high collar around his neck is too stiff, almost cruel, compared to the tender press of Kurt's mouth.

This is what it will be to lose Kurt, Blaine realizes. He'll have the memories, yes, but set against his reality, how is he to reconcile them? Is it possible to be both sad and grateful, to carry on with his life without having to make himself forget?

He doesn't want to forget. Blaine knows that much. Even now, he can close his eyes and remember the way Kurt kissed him last night, deep and languorous and hungry, and how those kisses had moved down his body. How Kurt had applied himself to Blaine's nipples, licking and sucking. It had seemed, at first, a strange focus for Kurt's attention, but for the way the sensation arced beneath Blaine's skin, feeding into the deep desire growing in Blaine's belly. Feeding, too, the needful ache between his legs, until Blaine was gasping, "Please…"

"Please?" Kurt had asked him, one loose hand skimming down Blaine's penis.

"I don't know," Blaine said.

"I do," Kurt replied. And he kissed down Blaine's belly until he was dipping his tongue tip in Blaine's navel and Blaine's cock was surging against the tender skin of his throat and Kurt said, "So you know what to ask for, Blaine, the word for what I'm about to do for you is fellatio."

"Fellatio," Blaine repeated to the ceiling. And then Kurt's mouth was on him, so hot, liquid, and enveloping, and the pleasure was so severe and sudden, Blaine believed for an instant he would lose his mind or pass out. It seemed impossible to endure.

And he didn't, in the finish, endure it well. He came fast and hard, helpless to do anything but. He'd flooded Kurt's mouth with his semen before he could warn Kurt of it.

To his embarrassment after, Kurt had smiled and said, "It's okay, Blaine. I prefer to swallow it," and, "You're adorable, you know?" And then Kurt had kissed him, and Blaine had tasted it—himself—on Kurt's tongue. Then Kurt had asked Blaine to masturbate him. "Take your time," Kurt said.

So Blaine lay on his side beside Kurt, one hand on Kurt's penis, kissing his mouth and neck while stroking him, trying to replicate some of the agility he'd enjoyed in Kurt's hand on him. Shyly, he'd ventured lower to kiss Kurt's nipples (which elicited the most rewarding sighs of pleasure and restless tension in Kurt's body). Blaine had watched his hand on Kurt while wondering about putting his mouth there. He didn't, but he had watched Kurt come, watched the way the semen pulsed from his penis and spilled upon his belly.

With his head resting upon Kurt's chest, Blaine had watched Kurt's cock soften in his hand. Then Kurt had reached down and dragged two fingertips through his own semen. He held them in front of Blaine's face. When Blaine lifted his head, Kurt gently pressed his fingers to Blaine's lips in silent offering. Curious, Blaine sought Kurt's eyes, and Kurt held his gaze with a brief nod. To which Blaine replied by opening his mouth and Kurt slid his fingers inside to give Blaine a taste—

The ding of Blaine's rig reminds him it's time to go out and prepare the room for the Ambassador. Disoriented by the abrupt transition back to his present, Blaine opens his eyes to see himself, in front of the mirror in the bathroom, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark. Between his legs his penis is heavy. It's good that the uniform tunic is long. He presses a cold cloth to his face and wills his body to calm itself.

.

Blaine has all the relevant new reports collected and sorted by priority for the Ambassador by the time she comes out. He sends them to her account, and pours her tea.

"You didn't sleep here last night," she observes.

Though Blaine knows it's unavoidable that his privacy be compromised, he still flinches and has to steady his breath to reply. "No, ma'am, I did not."

He hears the rustle of her clothes as she shifts back in her seat. "Is this going to become a problem, Blaine?"

"No, ma'am," he says.

"And yet, the summary I received from you yesterday suggested you were distracted at some points during the afternoon meetings."

"I apologize," Blaine says. "I admit I was feeling unwell yesterday afternoon, but I promise you that any source of distraction has been resolved."

Over the rim of her teacup the Ambassador studies him with a raised eyebrow. "How charmingly oblique," she says, and there's amusement in her voice. "I'm proud of you, but make sure you're getting enough sleep."

Blaine has to bite down on the smile that threatens to break his professional demeanor. "I understand," he says.

"Now, I need you to work closely with me today, so shall we get started?"

"Of course."


	15. Chapter 15

On the sofa opposite the Ambassador, Blaine settles and refills his coffee. Waking to a sunrise—even a simulation—has refreshed him in a way sleep rarely does. Mornings in space are indistinguishable from evenings, midday from midnight. He turns his gaze out to the stars, smeared by the ship's warp field into spectral streaks, but he rejects asking the Ambassador if he may change the view to something more day-like and stimulating. She prefers the calm of space to illusions of elsewhere. 

So Blaine turns his mind to the immediate task: working with the Ambassador on drafting editorial pieces and press releases to send to their media department back home on Apathea. The Defense office has a preliminary strategy proposal for sending a limited force in support of the Elyssian planetary evacuations. Public opinion remains an impediment to the First Minister's decision to authorize any greater military intervention. 

"Did you see the internal polling results Wes sent in with the reports this morning?" the Ambassador asks. Wes is the Diplomatic Office's Director of Communications.

"I did," Blaine says, and he brings the document to focus on his AR display. "I'm reluctant to critique the polling methods, it's not my forte, but..." Blaine presses his lips together. "I think we could get better numbers with different questions."

The Ambassador's lips curve minutely. "I'm listening." 

"Wes's questions are very dry. Factual and Hypothetical. If we rework some of them—make an appeal to emotion and morality as well, then I believe we could get numbers more like we need to, ah, encourage the First Minister to authorize the Defense Office's proposal."

"Tell me what you're thinking, Blaine."

Blaine retracts his eye piece to give the Ambassador his full attention and direct gaze. "No one at home wants a war of choice with the Charn, and that's what it looks like we're asking for right now." Blaine says. "Why would anyone choose that? It's not enough to ask citizens if they believe Apathea's interests will eventually come under threat if we don't intervene. The time frame is too abstract to convey a sense of either urgency or inevitability. Even if the argument is true, it's not persuasive." 

"I agree."

"Our problem is the public image of Elyssia as a distant, decadent society that has little to offer us. They appear weak and ripe for the Charn conquest. Many would, behind closed doors, say Elyssia has brought this upon themselves. Better them than us, some would say. Wouldn't they?"

"But only behind closed doors," the Ambassador acknowledges, and her eyes narrow. She lifts her chin and studies Blaine.

"Exactly, " he says, "and that won't be part of the public conversation, because our people would be too ashamed to make such an argument out loud and on the record. We think better of ourselves than that."

The Ambassador nods.

"So the argument shouldn't be primarily about logic and logistics, no matter how good a case we have there. The opposition will spin that however works best for them. But I remember what you said the first day, about the Elyssians being our friends. We make a case—even if only in implication—that to not help would be immoral. A sin of omission."

"We make an appeal to friendship then?"

"Not exactly," Blaine says, and more slowly he continues, for it's a risk to say the words out loud. The Ambassador may scoff. Blaine speaks anyway: "More than that, we make an appeal to our common humanity."

The Ambassador blinks calmly, unfazed. It's as if she expected it.

Blaine takes that as tacit encouragement. "That's why you took this mission, isn't it?" he asks, and it's bold enough she may think him impertinent.

But she inclines her head in agreement once more. "I have long believed this. But there remains a need to convince our public of the truth of it."

"That's why we're going to the museum to see the Colombia and its computers, isn't it?"

"That was meant to be a surprise," she says, somewhat wry now. "I didn't want any chatter among you boys in advance of seeing it. You'll understand the sensitivity of the issue, I trust. But I'm curious, how did you come to this knowledge, Blaine?"

"Kurt... um." Blaine casts his gaze down for a moment, catches himself. "That is, Master Hummel told me about it, he was surprised I didn't know. He said they have records from the Colombia, details about the Aurelia and the other ships."

"Isabelle assures me they do. The preserved records are very complete, she tells me. It may not be enough on its own for those back home, and we haven't had the opportunity to evaluate them ourselves yet."

"What about genetics?" Blaine asks. "Not just us, but the plants, the food, the animals. And culture? We share all this ancient music, literature, and art. The girl from Lima I've befriended? Tina Cohen-Chang? She could be the twin of my great aunt Cecilia when she was young. She could be my distant cousin for all I know. Ambassador, we're all from Earth."

"Yes."

"Then that's the narrative we use to persuade the people back home. It's a compelling story, and it's true. Apathea and Elyssia, we're more than friends, we're family. We have a responsibility."

"People will be skeptical. You're asking for a large leap of faith. And there are many in government who do not wish for this to become accepted knowledge. Stories are one thing, truth is another."

"But if it is true, then why not acknowledge it?"

"You know why. The threat to Apathean society is considered significant. Many fear chaos."

"So you're telling me that others know and keep it a secret?"

"Others strongly suspect. I'm not alone in this view. But the credible presentation to the public remains an obstacle."

"But it's all so obvious," Blaine says. "Who could deny it?"

"You assume too much good faith, Blaine. The usual suspects will resist, and you know they don't care about the truth. You said yourself, it's not about the facts, but the emotion. It's only obvious to you now that you're here. What about before we came, before you met Tina and Kurt and the others? Would you have believed it, if you'd been sitting at home in the evening and saw it being reported and debated on the political shows? Would your parents?"

It's a valid point. "Probably not," Blaine concedes. "I would assume it was sensationalism to distract from a more immediate and serious topic of the day."

"Quite," the Ambassador says. "So what persuaded you that Master Hummel spoke the truth?"

Even with the discussion of emotion and faith, an explanation involving shared intimacy in the afterglow is the wrong answer to give. Blaine says instead, "You told me of Elyssian honesty, and he has no reason to lie."

The Ambassador huffs a soft chuckle. "Major Clarington may differ."

"Major Clarington worries too much."

"It's his job to worry too much."

Blaine shakes his head, but he smiles too. He thinks he understands why now: why Hunter and why Nick. If they can be persuaded on this trip, then many more may be as well.

"What convinced you, Blaine?" the Ambassador asks. "Not a piece of information or a pattern of logic, those are clear enough and easily demonstrated, but something convinced you beyond reason: you haven't seen the Colombia's records or a gene sequence of a familiar looking flower here. Whatever convinced your heart, that's what we need to be able to share with the others."

Blaine nods, but he doesn't offer any answer. How does he explain his own heart to another? It's a sufficient mystery to himself.

"Well," the Ambassador says, setting her cup and saucer on the table and leaning back in her seat. She straightens her skirt over her knees. "Think about it. Your instincts are good here, but we need to find a way to lay the groundwork, we can't lob information this significant out there until we have a better idea of how it'll land. We can't even give all of it to Wes yet, as good as he is, this is—as they once would say—a bombshell."

"I'll do my best," Blaine says.

The Ambassador nods. "I know you will. Now, please, call Master Hummel and tell him we're ready for breakfast."

.

Shortly, Kurt comes in, and he strikes Blaine as even more beautiful than when Blaine left him this morning. It's like a blow to his belly to knock the air from his lungs—and all the clarity of language from his mind. Kurt is— Blaine has neither the mental breath nor the vocabulary for what Kurt is to him, for what they are to each other. It seems as if a tether is between them now, more than the simple compulsion of desire, but a sense of belonging. When Blaine looks at Kurt, he feels as if he's looking at part of himself. He's not sure how to make sense of that. They've only known each other for days.

More than that, Blaine knows he's blushing; he can feel the heat in his cheeks, and he struggles to keep his gaze from returning to Kurt, from lingering, from slipping down the length of him, to enjoy the line of his legs, his slim hips and trim waist, the hard planes of his chest. Blaine looks at Kurt's mouth, and he is powerless not to remember how it's been on his body. Viscerally, Blaine recalls the sweetness of Kurt's lips upon his skin, the enveloping hot slide around him, the wrench of ecstasy.

He catches Kurt looking back, a warm glance of interest. Blaine sees the answering color on his cheeks, and sees how well Kurt is filling out his trousers—would swear Kurt's partially erect from the way the swollen shape of his cock is so distinct behind the thin white of his trousers. And that makes Blaine's imagination and memory collide in a way that makes his stomach clench and his head swim. He's definitely growing aroused himself. 

Blaine tries to concentrate on sipping his coffee, but his gaze keeps tracking to Kurt's groin, and each time Blaine's attention gets snagged there. He wonders what it would be like to put his mouth on Kurt there. The idea of it comes so vividly in his imagination, opening his mouth and pressing himself down over the thick column of Kurt's penis.

How would it taste? How would it feel? What would Kurt say to him?

"Mr. Anderson?" Kurt asks, and Blaine blinks back to reality and looks up. His cheeks burn, and Kurt's smile is both affectionate and something else—knowing. Kurt twitches an eyebrow up as his own gaze ticks down to Blaine's mouth and he angles his hips toward Blaine as if offering a better view. But his voice betrays nothing. He stands poised with a platter balanced on one hand. "Would you like eggs this morning?"

The Ambassador clears her throat. Blaine sits up straight, swallows the phantom flavor of his curiosity, and says, "Yes, please."

Kurt finishes serving their meal, and prepares to leave. Blaine tries to keep his attention on his food, the bright green flecks of some fresh herb within the gold of the scrambled eggs, the tickle of fresh pepper in his nose, the way the pat of butter melts under his knife upon the fresh toasted bread. Blaine doesn't even risk a look up at Kurt as he maneuvers the dining cart toward the door. 

But then the Ambassador speaks. "Master Hummel," she addresses Kurt directly. It startles Blaine, for she hasn't done that before. "I wonder if you could do me a service?" she asks. 

Blaine worries it's going to be something about him, and he dares to look back up. Kurt's attentive and professional as he turns, clasping his hands behind his back. "I'm happy to assist you, Ambassador," he replies. 

"I have a letter for the Councilor that I'd like hand delivered directly to her, without delay."

Blaine is relieved, but only a personal level. A handwritten letter? Whose attention is she trying to avoid—or whose is she trying to attract? Kurt's not among the usual pages and couriers used on the ship for such things.

"It will be my pleasure," Kurt says. "I'll take it to her now."

"Please do. One moment." The Ambassador stands and then goes to her study. She returns with a square envelope. Blaine recognizes a biometric seal on it. She hands it to Kurt. "Thank you." 

Kurt bows, slides Blaine a glance and a promising smile, and then he departs.

Once Kurt's gone the Ambassador sits, smooths her napkin back over her lap, and speaks to Blaine without looking at him. "You must be more discreet. And so, for your sake, must your friend. Please save us both the embarrassment and speak to him for me. I don't need to see that at breakfast. No one does."

"Ma'am, yes," Blaine says, and a chill prickles across his skin, for she's not gently teasing him. It's no mild admonishment, but a reminder and a warning.

.

After breakfast, Blaine goes to his room to work. This morning, Major Clarington is touring the ship's engineering room and weapons systems with Nick. Trent has accompanied the Ambassador to a casual one-on-one meeting with Isabelle, and Blaine is surplus to her immediate requirements. So he tasks himself with revising the correspondence and documents to send to Wes as per the morning's conversations with the Ambassador. But between the marks of punctuation, Blaine's mind is a jumble of sense memory.

The taste of sugar on Kurt's lips the first time they kissed. 

The frictionless glide of Kurt's semen between his thighs this morning. 

Kurt's soft spoken, _"I want you."_ from last night—

—and Blaine's desperate, fumbling return, _"Please, have me."_.

Over and over again, Blaine turns his attention back to communication strategies. He wants to add a more informal note to Wes at the beginning, describing his own experience of friendship and unexpected kinship here. The Elyssian people are warm, generous, and honest: worthy of not only Apathea's assistance, but also their alliance. They have much to learn from each other. Elyssian technology is striking and innovative, their culture rich and complementary. 

He writes and rewrites it to be personal without being revealing, and to avoid mention of any sensitive or controversial conclusions. He tries to map logic to his feelings, to find a way to share his insight and intuition. It's what the Ambassador asked of him.

And in the pauses between thoughts, he thinks of Kurt. he feels the ghost of their lovemaking still lingering hot beneath his skin. The potential of their next allotment of private time together gathers bright in his mind: all the things they may do again, and all the new things he hasn't yet dreamed of. 

A girl brings his lunch directly to the door of his private quarters. The food is cold, light, and simple. Blaine thanks her. He rereads his morning's work while he eats. He checks the infotab for any messages from Kurt, and finds he has one waiting. It's an hour old and brief: 

_"I'd like to spoil you this evening. Tina tells me you have a passion for music. We'll dine first, then go to the auditorium for the evening show. It's relaxing. I'm confident you'll enjoy it with me, and we'll have ample opportunity to enjoy each other after. I'll meet you at your quarters once the day's work is done."_

It's enough for Blaine's blood to surge hot and low. And he chastises himself for the persistent and immediate physicality of his response, for it seems his body would be content to skip both food and music tonight and simply slake its carnal desires with Kurt's body. But Blaine, no matter how powerful his physical urges, will learn to manage this. He will be discreet, and he will conduct himself with decorum and grace. He will enjoy all of the time he has with Kurt, and all of the activities that time may entail. 

That doesn't stop Blaine from indulging the pleasurable rush of anticipation of being with Kurt again. He considers how best to word his reply to Kurt; he wishes to flirt, to both signal and promise his interest in exploring more intimate pleasures with Kurt tonight, but he must also be mindful of the Ambassador's warning to him. Even in private correspondence, he cannot afford to be careless. "Then I shall apply myself diligently to my work this afternoon so that the time may pass swiftly," Blaine writes. "I've longed to return to your embrace since the moment I left you this morning." It reads to him like a note he may write were he courting Kurt, a too formal expression of his desire, though the sentiment is sincere. He hopes Kurt will find it endearing.

.

Blaine goes to the gym after lunch. It's been an easy habit to adopt, and the predictable routine of it helps him reorient and refresh himself for the afternoon. On his way back to his quarters, he gets an alert from Nick. With a frown, Blaine accepts the communication. "I need to talk to you in private," Nick says.

"I'll come to your rooms," Blaine replies.

Nick meets him at the door with a sour expression. Blaine goes in and sits at the table where they ate dinner and played cards last night. "How may I help?" Blaine asks, and he remembers to smile.

"I'm not the one who needs help," Nick says, He sits opposite Blaine and leans his elbows on the table. "What are you up to, Blaine? The major was grilling me this morning about what I knew about you and your recent behavioral aberrations."

"Behavioral aberrations?" Blaine raises an eyebrow and maintains his smile, careful to keep it natural, not too fixed.

"His words," Nick says. "Not mine."

"It's nothing to worry about," Blaine says. "I'm sorry he's bothered you—"

"No, it's not nothing. You don't understand. He thinks you're helping the Ambassador with something clandestine. She's been protecting you, and he's suspicious. And, honestly, Blaine, he's getting very intense about it. "

"I'm not going to discuss what I do in my personal time with Major Clarington, or, for that matter, with you," Blaine says, and he moves to stand. "Perhaps the major needs his rig adjusted. This is a peaceful mission of friendship. The Elyssia are not our enemies."

But Nick speaks quickly, "Hunter showed me your medical data log from last night." 

Blaine sits back down. It's not a surprise, but he had hoped it would go unnoticed. "And?"

Nick rubs both hands over his face and speaks from behind them. "I... I think I know what you're doing. But I didn't want to tell him in case I was wrong—or in case I was right."

"What do you think I'm doing?" Blaine asks neutrally. He won't show any concern, doesn't want to give Nick anything to work with—or to take back to Hunter.

"I saw you walking with her in the Garden yesterday. I don't remember her name."

"Tina." Blaine provides calmly. "She's a representative from Lima, one of the worlds pending evacuation."

"Yeah, I've seen you talking with her a few times now. Are you..." Nick lowers his voice, and he appears sincerely concerned. "Are you and she—? Gods, Blaine, don't make me say it."

"Tina's a friend. Whatever you're thinking, you're mistaken."

Nick looks skeptical. "Okay, look, if you don't want to tell me, I understand completely. I know what's at stake for you. Just be careful, please? It's not worth it."

"I'm doing my job," Blaine says, and it comes out more defensive than he intends. "That involves meeting the Elyssians on their own terms. You should understand that better than most. Given your background and your presence on this mission, I don't understand your hostility."

"It's good that you don't," Nick says, and his lips pinch into a line of unexpected misery. "I wouldn't want you to."

"What happened to you?" Blaine asks, gently now. He frowns. This may be more than casual bigotry. But Nick hesitates to answer, and Blaine begins to understand. "I won't betray your confidence, Nick," he adds.

"I've never told anyone. There were some who knew at the time, but we kept each others' secrets. You kind of have to here, just to get through."

"I can understand that," Blaine says. "We can't afford to impose the moral standards of home too rigidly in the field, certainly not on the cultures we encounter—often not on ourselves either. Flexibility isn't a failure. It's smart."

With a short nod, Nick continues softly. "So when I was at the consulate here, I met an Elyssian girl. I won't give you the details, but I believed she loved me, and she broke my heart. I'll never be able to undo what she did to me. I courted her, and she didn't... get it. Not at all. She thought it was some kind of joke." Nick blinks back the shine from his eyes, but his voice doesn't break. "So please believe me when I say you should be careful."

"I appreciate your concern, Nick, and your trusting me. I'm sorry for what you experienced. But, please believe me when I say I'm confident that I'm not in any danger here."

Nick's smile is less than encouraging, but there's some humor in it. "I don't know that you're safe if Hunter suspects you're doing some intelligence work for the Ambassador behind his back but are being double finessed by the guy who serves us breakfast."

Blaine lets himself laugh. "Hunter's imagination is more creative than I'd expect."

"He thinks she doesn't trust him."

"That's his problem," Blaine says, and he stands up.

Nick stands with him, and he takes something from his pocket. "In case I'm not wrong and these would help you. Here." He offers it to Blaine.

The pattern etched into the stainless steel bottle is familiar: blockers.

Blaine hesitates to take them. His first instinct is to recoil. But letting Nick believe he's having a secret romance with Tina may be better than other options. So Blaine takes them. "Thank you," Blaine says.

.

_"Be discreet,"_ the Ambassador told him, which is made vastly more difficult if he's got Hunter breathing down his neck and Nick taking him aside for difficult confessions and unwanted advice. So Blaine summons up his courage and goes to see her immediately after he leaves Nick. He knocks on the door of her study.

"Come in, Blaine," she says. She always knows when it's him, can tell from the way he knocks.

He goes in. She's seated at a desk with its top set at an angle. Dozens of documents are open across its display. She sweeps her hand across the surface, and they cascade into a single neat pile. "What is it?" Her walls are set to a mottled dark green texture. 

"I have a favor to ask of you," he says. "And some information."

"All right." she says, and turns her chair to face Blaine where he stands. "Information first."

"I had an interesting conversation with Nick. He tells me Major Clarington suspects I'm doing some kind of covert intelligence work for you, that you don't trust him, and that Master Hummel is—somehow—using me for his own intelligence gathering purposes."

She nods, her smile is small and enigmatic. "How interesting," she says. "And what favor do you wish to ask of me?"

"It's about my being discreet." Blaine asks.

"Yes?"

"I may need your help with that. The Major is keeping a close watch on all my logged data, and I don't have the clearance to change what's collected. But you do."

She's amused, clearly enjoying herself. "Well," she says archly. "We certainly don't want a scandal, do we?"

Blaine blushes and looks down at his boots. "No."

"Tell me what you need."

"Privacy," Blaine says, and he lifts his head, rests his fingers at his temple.

"You don't wish for it to log your... night time exercise?"

"No."

"Insomnia is such a difficult thing to manage. I'll see what I can do," she says. "Of course there's always medication you can take. If you prefer a simpler solution."

"Nick already gave me some."

"Good, that was thoughtful of him. Use it if you need it," she says and turns back to the desk. "I'll adjust the parameters on your medical monitor's reporting."

"Thank you," Blaine says. He turns to leave. 

"Oh, and Blaine?" she calls over her shoulder.

Her tone—the lightness that's too light not to be artifice—roots Blaine to the spot. "Yes?" he asks.

"Please don't mistake my support for you as endorsement of your night time activities. All right?"

"I understand," Blaine says, though he's not entirely certain that he does.

.

It's abruptly too much to navigate. Blaine cannot simultaneously be Hunter's prey, Nick's unexpected confidant, and the Ambassador's obedient drudge. (Though the last thought he censures himself for. It's uncharitable and wrong, but as much as he does trust June—as much as she cares for him and he for her, as much mutual respect as there is—there are times she's like a stranger, and it's— No. He's not going to think that way. )

He returns to his private rooms, determinedly trying to banish the bitter twist of resentment from his chest, ignoring the deeper taint of fear, and the salty taste of unshed tears gathering in his throat. It's childish. He's an adult, but right now, he's so sick of smiling, of the pretense and politeness, of having to approach every day and every conversation like a tactical puzzle to analyze and solve. He's tired of having to measure and manage his words and affect like strategic resources.

Except when he's with Kurt. The thought alone brings a sense of relief so deep, Blaine fears his knees will buckle. He sits, and reminds himself: he's seeing Kurt again this evening, a respite which is only a few hours away.

And yet, as he anticipates it, he grows even more desperate for Kurt's company. Those hours between now and meeting Kurt draw into a gulf. Blaine stands again and paces from his sitting room to his bedroom, his arms wrapped around himself and his fingers pressing hard against his elbows. Tension still mounts inside him, for the things he wants now—the relief and release he experiences with Kurt are such a new thing, things he couldn't conceive of lacking until he had them. But their lack in this moment is like a void, and today it's set so starkly against the things he has to be, and a version of himself that increasingly feels false or incomplete.

But he loves his life; his career is his vocation. He's worked hard to get exactly where he is. He's just having a bad day, that's all. He's tired. And—June is right about one thing—he's not been getting enough sleep. He's been neglecting other things too.

Blaine pulls a firm square pillow from the bed and sets it on the floor. He lowers himself to sit cross-legged upon it. He gazes out at the distorted field of stars: this is where he is. Blaine breathes slowly and deeply: in, then out, then in, maintaining a sedate rhythm to soothe his nerves and his mind. His shoulders relax, his heart slows, and he closes his eyes. But it's nearly an hour before Blaine regains his sense of equilibrium.


	16. Chapter 16

With his head clear, Blaine returns to his work with renewed focus. He begins to sketch out a broader communications strategy for introducing—or reintroducing—the Elyssians to Apathea as long lost family in need of support and assistance. 

After the trip to the museum—which will provide not only information but various media opportunities—they'll make a presentation to be beamed back to Apathea. Wes will need advance preparation for a press conference, so he'll need time with it before a public viewing. May have suggestions for edits to make. Back home they'll also need proxies, both credible and diverse, ready to speak on the issue. Blaine doesn't know who yet, but he'll be surprised if the Ambassador doesn't have a list.

So Blaine makes his own list, of every question, doubt, and challenge he can imagine coming from not only the skeptical and curious public and media; but also from their hostile political opposition. He needs to provide Wes a starting place from which to prepare appropriate and tactical responses, depending on the tone and origin of the question. The frame of the moral argument must be consistent. They need elegance and clarity, easily digestible pieces that will assemble themselves naturally in the minds of the public. 

It's a lot. He wishes he could talk it out with Wes and his staff in real time. This isn't his strongest area, drafting communications strategies for the domestic sensibility. He wonders if it would be appropriate to meet with Elliott and get his input.

Blaine's considering an inquiry to the Ambassador when the lights go out. Quietly he sits for a moment, listening. Hears nothing catastrophic. "Lights?" he says to the darkness. 

The lights don't come up. Which leaves his only source of illumination the screen of the infotab. It's reporting an error, so the ship's network nodes must be down along with the lights. A power failure then. In the dim glow cast by the infotab, Blaine carefully picks his way from his workroom to his bed chamber. The walls have gone dull, blank, and completely opaque. He taps the wall near the door, and gets no response. Fortunately, the hum of the engines remains a constant vibration beneath his feet, so they're still at warp.

He's relieved to find the door has defaulted to an unlocked state; he finds a groove on the edge of it that fits his fingertips. It slides open easily. Once it's open, he touches his temple and activates the IR overlay for his rig and rolls up the infotab's screen to conserve its power. 

The Ambassador is already in the lounge area, a brighter figure in the greenscale gloom. He gets her message on his rig for their delegation to convene here. Another, higher priority message overtakes the display; it's from Major Clarington, prompting code alpha emergency response protocols. Blaine declines the suggested action. It's too soon for that. He doesn't want to use metabolic boosters or get his sidearm unless there's an actual, clear danger to confront. Right now it's just dark and quiet. They're nowhere near the conflict zones.

"All right?" he asks the Ambassador.

"Perfectly fine," she says, sounding—if anything—vaguely bored by the disruption. Unflappable as ever. It's a comfort.

The others come in from the hall without difficulty. Nick and Trent wear thin protective vests and caps. Trent sets a pair of small lamps on the table that illuminate the room adequately. Blaine switches off his low light enhancement and blinks as the color comes back to his vision. He grimaces when he sees the Major, who wears his sidearm while the peace knot on his phase dagger is undone. Across his chest is strapped a satchel that Blaine knows will contain other weapons and gear. He's wearing a heavy armored jacket, cuisses, and greaves.

"Do you have reason to suspect an attack?" Blaine asks him, keeping his tone conversational. Careful not to challenge.

"Not yet," Hunter says. He puts opens the satchel, takes out an armored vest and cap, passes them to the Ambassador. "Ma'am," he says. "Please wear these."

She takes them but makes no move to put them on, nor does she ask for Blaine's assistance. "Let's not assume the worst, Major," she says. "We'll wait patiently until we know something more."

But Hunter ignores her. He passes the next vest to Blaine along with a sonic blaster and a belt with replacement energy packs on it. "I trust you remember your combat training," Hunter says to him. "Keep her safe," he says. "I'll be guarding the door. "Nick? With me." Blaine clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath. Exhales the tension in his muscles with it.

Sees Trent standing nervously. The light casts his face lurid detail and highlights his fear—no doubt well primed by Hunter's leap to heightened vigilance. It—weirdly—reminds Blaine of late nights at the Academy telling scary stories with his fellow students. But Trent blinks and forces a smile before hesitantly reaching up and taking off his armored cap. He smooths his hair back with a shaking hand and exhales in a long rush.

"Ma'am, are you concerned?" Blaine asks June quietly as he moves to sit opposite her and gestures for Trent to sit as well. Hearing it from her might help calm Trent's nerves. 

"Caution is wise whenever something goes amiss in space," she says. "But no, not overly so."

The weight of the sonic blaster in Blaine's hand is more familiar than he'd like it to be. He does remember his training. He checks the weapon's battery pack is charged, verifies Hunter has left the safety engaged, dials it back to its lowest setting and sets it, the armored clothing, and the belt on the table.

Then comes the sound of voices in the hall. Hunter's voice is loud and challenging though his words are muffled. The tone is enough to pull Blaine's spine straight. A softer, placating response comes. Sounds like either Kurt or Sam. Blaine stands quickly. He wills Hunter to be polite even if he can't manage nice. Glances at the Ambassador, who raises an eyebrow and lifts her chin. Blaine goes to the door and opens it—

—to nearly collide with a rather harried looking Sam, who holds in his arms a stack of blankets. He has a lamp mounted on his forehead that casts a broad beam of light. Blaine steps aside to let him in. Behind him one of the girls who helps with breakfast has a covered tray. The metal lid rattles against its base. Her eyes are wide and unblinking and fixed on Hunter who is staring right back at her. His frigid expression is inhuman—and entirely inappropriate.

"Come in, please. Let me help you with that," Blaine says to the girl gently. He smiles and extends his arm between her and Hunter, brushing her shoulder to encourage her welcome. She doesn't let him take the tray, but she does step forward. 

Nick nudges the Major's elbow. "I don't think she's got a bomb under there, Major." Nick says.

Inside their rooms, Sam unloads his blankets and several more portable lanterns. Then he addresses the Ambassador. "The ship's main generator is offline and the back ups aren't coming online as quickly as we'd like. Our engineers are working on it. But please don't worry, primary life support is fine, it's on a different line, but the temperature may take a downturn before it stabilizes. We're very sorry for the inconvenience."

The girl sets the tray on the table and uncovers it. It's a carafe of juice and a cold platter of fruit, bread, and cheese.

"Are your engineers aware of a cause for the issue?" the Ambassador asks.

Sam shakes his head. "You know as much as I do, Ma'am. In the meantime, I've brought blankets, lamps, refreshments and—" he dips his shoulder to slide his arm free of a bag strap. "A few other essentials."

"That's all fine, thank you, Mr. Evans," the Ambassador says. 

"Mr. Evans?" Blaine asks as he takes the bag from Sam, but he keeps his voice soft, since it feels like a more personally motivated query. "May I ask, where's Master Hummel?" 

Sam's smile is apologetic. "The main kitchens have lost power too, which means there's a lot of food about to spoil. He's coordinating damage control. He's put me in charge here for now."

"I understand," Blaine says.

"We'll do our best to get you all a hot dinner tonight," Sam adds. "In the meantime, I'll just be across the hall, so if you need anything to assist either your work or your comfort, let me know." He turns to leave, but then turns back again. "And, Ambassador, if you or your staff are doubting your safety aboard _The Galactic Diamond_ , I'd be happy to arrange for the Captain to come address your concerns personally as soon as she's able."

"That won't be necessary," the Ambassador replies. "My men are following protocol, they'll stand down."

Sam nods in acknowledgment and leaves.

"Do you still have that bottle of wine, Trent?" Blaine asks, wry. "Maybe we'll need it this afternoon."

Trent laughs, but the Ambassador shakes her head. "Just tell the others to come back in, Blaine. We'll stay together until the power returns. This isn't an excuse to set down our work. We'll settle here and continue to do what we're here to do, all right?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

The Major and Nick come back in, and at the Ambassador's prompting, they remove their weapons and armored clothing. Blaine helps Hunter pack it all back into his satchel. But Hunter doesn't sit with the rest of them, he stands near the door, stone faced and not at all reassuring in his presence.

Blaine looks at him and wonders just how much of his brain has been replaced with circuitry. The cold efficiency of the military hasn't bothered Blaine much until now, but here, more than any other mission Blaine's been on, the most alien being on the ship is technically one of his own people. Fortunately the Major doesn't return Blaine's scrutiny.

Blaine settles and returns his attention to their work. Not communications strategies this afternoon, but the Charn themselves. The Ambassador wants to discuss what a hypothetical mediation between the Charn and Elyssia, brokered by Apathea, might look like. Nick looks mildly confused, Trent concerned, but Major Clarington's interest seems piqued. He leaves off his position by the door, removes his jacket, and sits with them. Blaine does his best to consider the scenario seriously. The Ambassador likes to pose these kinds of thought experiments to provoke insight and new perspectives.

And Blaine's job is, as always, to provide advice and assistance. He listens attentively as the Ambassador asks Hunter to outline Apathea's history with the Charn. The Major gives the broad brush strokes of Apathea's war with the Charn, how it began—without warning or provocation—and how it ended, with dogged determination, cunning intelligence, high risks, and the largest stellar naval fleet the Apathean economy could construct. 

"Admiral Dolloway was your great uncle, Ambassador, wasn't he?" Major Clarington says.

"It's hardly a secret, Major," she replies dismissively. It's common knowledge among both her staff and the public: the man who planned and led the last battle of the war, the one that destroyed the Charn capital ship and its entire assault group, is her ancestor. The Ambassador's family has a distinguished history of significant public service, but she disdains any whiff of status associated with her name. Her work stands on its own merits.

And yet, Blaine looks at Hunter and considers his reminder alongside the Ambassador's hypothetical mediation. Surely she's not considering— No. But there's the matter of the hand written note to the Councilor this morning. Blaine turns his attention to the Ambassador. "Ma'am?" he asks.

"Mr. Anderson," she says without looking at him, "Would you please find Mr. Evans and ask him to bring us more water?" 

Blaine blinks once and then stands smoothly. He inclines his head politely and says, "Of course."

.

It's a relief when the exterior walls finally brighten, flicker, and resolve the streaming starscape outside. Blaine exhales slowly and stares at it as his sense of space expands, like there's more air to breathe. The Ambassador excuses everyone until dinner, from which Blaine then excuses himself. 

After the others leave to dine, Blaine showers for his date with Kurt. The Ambassador's earlier dismissal of his attempted questioning still rankles. Once he returned to the meeting he limited himself to only responding to what was directed at him and asked nothing more of his own. Perhaps it's simply that the questions he would ask are not ones the Ambassador wishes to address with the others present. Which makes Blaine wonder why have the conversation at all? So he allows himself to entertain—less hypothetically—the notion of attempted diplomacy with the Charn. Is it even possible to arrange some kind of meeting? Or perhaps it's simply the attempt that's relevant: a tacit threat of Apathean involvement in the conflict. Even though it could only be a desperate bluff at this point. 

The work to be done is not quick, but then, neither are the Charn, and his work day is over. Blaine shakes off the impending frustration creeping beneath his skin and instead turns his thoughts to Kurt, who will be by soon.

Blaine dresses with his customary care, and tries to find a way to add a flourish to his outfit, but his wardrobe is practical clothing and he has few accessories. He makes the best of a pair of casual maroon trousers that are tailored more narrowly than those of his uniform and a light gray cardigan over a crisp white shirt. He leaves the top two buttons unfastened.

He styles his hair more loosely while thinking about Kurt putting his hands in it. Shaves neatly, and even the familiar passage of the razor over his skin seems new. His anticipation grows, fine and sharp.

But when the bell to his quarters chimes, the door opens to reveal Tina waiting for him. She's wearing a ruffled green top that bares her shoulders and a floaty knee-length skirt with a black, white, and yellow geometric print. Her grin is bright and she presents him with a small bouquet of daisies.

"Hello, Tina," Blaine says. "I wasn't expecting you. I'm afraid I already have plans for the evening."

"Yes, I know. These are from Kurt," she says, putting the flowers into his hands. "He's very sorry he can't make it. He'll find you once he's finished work, but in the meantime, if you would still like to go out for the evening, I'm here to escort you," Tina says.

"Oh, I see," Blaine says and he smiles through his disappointment. "I'd like that. Let me find somewhere to put these." She follows him inside while he finds a decorative vase of an appropriate size. He hesitates to leave the flowers on the table in the living area. Excuses himself briefly to put them in his room on top of the dresser.

When he comes back out, he offers Tina his arm. They chat as they walk to the lift. Tina explains that Kurt's been drafted into engineering work tonight. Apparently there was a power surge and several older power exchanges on the ship blew. "Everyone says the ship didn't get the maintenance it needed the last time it was docked, and engineering is understaffed. Doesn't seem smart to me. I guess they need all hands in the shipyards or something. But trust me, he'd rather be with you tonight than rebuilding circuits or whatever it is they've got him doing."

"So is there anything Kurt doesn't know how to do?" Blaine inflects the question with humor, but he is curious about the diversity of Kurt's skills. 

"His father was a mechanic," Tina says. "But he's always been busy like this, with some project or another. He likes working with his hands." The last is accompanied by a tilt of her head. "Which I understand you've discovered for yourself recently."

"Oh," Blaine says; his face flushes with heat and his insides go uncomfortably tight at the boldness of her inference. Strange, too, to realize that a few days ago, her meaning would have eluded him. "I, uh...?"

"It's okay, Kurt told me about you two," Tina says, "in the context of asking me to refrain from any future meddling. You could have told me, Blaine. I'm happy for you."

"Thank you."

"And just so you know, in case I gave you the wrong impression the other day, Kurt's a wonderful person. He'll be good to you," she says, and Blaine doesn't doubt it.

She takes him to a restaurant aft on the upper decks. It's an elongated crescent shape with its broad exterior curve bowing out into the symmetrical distortion of stars strung out behind them. The floor appears to be some mottled gray stone, polished to a mirror like shine, but it's soft beneath Blaine's boots. A gleaming black piano rests in the center of the room, and a woman in a sheer silver gown plays—nothing Blaine recognizes, but it's an airy, light piece that ripples through the space. The maitre'd leads them to a table near the center with nothing between them and the view, and it's like being seated in an oversized cosmic kaleidoscope.

"This is quite a venue," Blaine says, holding Tina's chair for her. 

Tina beams up at him. "I hoped you'd enjoy it." She sits with an artful sweep of her skirt and a show of straightening her shoulders. Her smile is amused. "You're so old fashioned, Blaine. It's charming."

"Are you telling me good manners are out of fashion here?" Blaine teases and sits opposite her while the maitre'd fills their water goblets with sparkling water.

"Not at all," she says, "Just different. Would you like wine?"

"No, thank you," Blaine says.

Tina grimaces. "I don't know how well I can impress you if you won't try my family's wine."

"Am I being rude?" he asks, "by declining?"

"No," she says. "I understand not everyone likes to partake. Do you make wine back home?"

"Not much," he says. "Alcohol was banned except for ceremonial purposes long before I was born."

"Hmm," she says. "So you'll have no appreciattion for the artistry of it, then."

"On this matter, I'll admit that I'm lacking in sophistication."

She laughs. "Well, you can learn a lot about wine without getting drunk," she says. "Perhaps I could arrange a tasting for your delegation when we get to the Capitol? I promise to enhance your sophistication."

"I'll be sure to suggest it to the Ambassador," Blaine says.

Tina's smile is bright. "That would be amazing, Blaine. Thank you."

Then follows a quiet lull, wherein a waiter pours for Tina a glass of wine and brings Blaine a pinkish orange fruit juice. "So," Blaine says, looking about the room at the other diners, the high curve of the ceiling, and out toward the beautifully distorted starfield. "This ship, she's unusual for a warship, isn't she?"

Tina cocks her head. "A warship?"

"I mean, she's very comfortable. Even our commercial ships aren't this luxurious," Blaine says.

"She's primarily a government liner that operates in the inner worlds, and we aren't a martial society," Tina says, and Blaine doesn't miss the defensive note in her voice. "I don't know why you'd expect her to be some kind of battleship."

"I'm not criticizing," he reassures. "But I was thinking about what you said, about her not getting the maintenance she requires. Could she fight, do you think?"

"I have no idea." 

"I'm just wondering, what would happen if— Never mind. It's a hypothetical, and it's work related and maybe not the most appropriate topic of dinner conversation?"

Tina exhales a laugh. Her shoulders relax and she takes her napkin from the table. "At the end of the day, I'm not a starship designer or a military strategist. I could tell you anything you'd like to know about music or wine or sex or many other arts, but I don't know very much about war."

"But you are politically minded," Blaine says.

"I am."

"What would you do, then, if you were calling the shots."

"Ah, I see your hypothetical is actually quite fantastical." She grins.

"I'm just curious," Blaine says. "You're a well informed citizen outside a lot of the current process, but you have some strong opinions and thoughts, and I'd value hearing your perspective."

She looks at him curiously. "May I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Is this a conversation you'd be having with Kurt, if you were with him tonight?"

"Oh, um, maybe? I don't know."

"This is your time off. I'd hoped we'd get to know each other better tonight, Blaine, as friends."

"Ah," Blaine says, glances down. "I have been rude then."

A server brings them a platter of assorted bite-sized savories to share. The aroma of some unfamiliar herb combination makes Blaine's mouth water. He waits for Tina to choose her own before he spears a plump, filled dumpling with his fork. It's fresh and fragrant.

"You haven't," she says. "I'm not uninterested, but, I don't know. Normally I'd be wanting to pick your mind, but this week has been a hard one, and tonight, I'd like to leave some of the seriousness behind us for a little while. I'd love to learn more about you. All I know is your job, that you like music, and you're spending a lot of time with Kurt."

It's more than most people know about him. His professional life is most of what he's accustomed to talking about. 

"So, I don't know. Tell me what it was like growing up for you?"

He glances down at his fork, attends to selecting another dumpling with a different shape and a different, spicier filling. "There's not much to tell," he says. "My childhood was very orderly. My family home is near the city, my mother works at the Office of Environment and Sustainable Technology and my father is an exogeologist with the Colonial Office. I studied hard and was accepted into the government service track at sixteen and graduated from the Academy with honors. I've had a good career working with Ambassador Dolloway since then."

"Model citizen, huh?" Tina says. "I'm sure there's more to tell. I can't believe you're really that boring."

Blaine shrugs, but laughs. 

"And this is why we drink wine sometimes, Blaine," she teases, "to lower our inhibitions and lubricate our conversations."

"What about you. Tell me about growing up on Lima."

She grins. "All right, I'll show you how this is done." Tina takes a sip of her wine and tells him tales of growing up on a vineyard—she tells him not only about grape varieties and soil and altitude and sunshine, but of the hot dry days leading up to harvest, the long days of work during—"There are so many things we prefer not to automate," she says, "It's art as much as science and craft, and my father always says, art requires human instinct and intuition."—and the long parties after. She easily transports Blaine's imagination to the fragrant summer nights, the weariness and happiness, the satisfaction of a job well done, the music and ease of good friends.

She tells him about helping her parents process the grapes, the fine attention and important details. It's all far more complex than Blaine expects, and she makes it fascinating. And then she tells hims about chasing birds off the ripening fruit as a small child. "Of course we do have automated systems to discourage the birds safely and humanely, but somehow, when I was four, I thought it was my job. So it was me and our dog Millie. We were very serious about our duties."

"I bet you were adorable," Blaine says.

"Oh, we were," Tina says, but sadness shades her smile. 

It's a lot to lose, Blaine understands. "You've actually... changed my mind tonight," he says. "May I try it?" he asks, gesturing at her glass.

"Oh!" She smiles in delight. "Would you like your own glass or just a sip from mine?"

"A glass would be fine, but just a little bit."

The waiter brings him a glass and pours a couple centimeters worth of wine for him. He finds it both more sour and acidic than he expected, but it lingers with a complex rich fruitiness that's not unappealing Tina prompts him to describe the flavors, and he does his best. It's fun, and he doesn't feel intoxicated, though the warmth of the wine going down blooms pleasantly in his body.

"And every wine is different?" Blaine asks. It's hard to imagine, infinite variations on a single beverage.

"Oh, yes," she says. "There's so much to explore and learn, if you're interested," she says. 

"I don't know if I'll have time to pursue any serious study," Blaine says regretfully, and he examines the light hitting the warm gold of the remaining wine in his glass, tips the bowl of the glass toward his nose to see if he can find the notes of peaches and honeysuckle Tina assures him are there. But his regret leads him back to Kurt and how they're missing the night together. He wonders how Kurt's doing, if he's had a dinner break or if he's working straight through mealtime. Should he have sent a message before he left with Tina? To thank him for the flowers? But the lack of a message from Kurt may imply a wish to avoid interruptions so that he may accomplish his work efficiently. Blaine will wait. 

"Then just enjoy it while you can," Tina says. She lifts her glass toward him in a toast. He meets it, clinks his glass against hers and drains the last of the wine from his goblet. 

"So," he says as he sets his empty glass back on the table. "Will we be attending the concert after dinner tonight? Or has there been a change of plans?"

"I'd love to take you," Tina says. "Kurt reserved two seats."

.

The Auditorium, rather than the stage Blaine expects, is a space into which one ascends via a spiraling staircase into a broad illuminated dome above them. The gallery circles the entry in concentric rings on a gentle incline. Tina leads him to a pair of the reclining seats. They're wide and deep with broad arms that double as tables. Blaine sees a few couples sharing a single such chair, some wider couches accommodate larger groups, and seeing others embraced, his whole body pangs for Kurt. Blaine goes to lower himself into his seat beside Tina and flinches at how the surface yields beneath his hand. It's fluid, but viscous. Some kind of gel. And it's warm beneath the sueded surface. 

Tina watches him, amused. "It won't bite," she tells him as he pushes against it with his palm to see if it ripples. It doesn't. "They're deigned to both resonate with the music and conform to your body."

"Sounds comfortable," Blaine says, and they settle into their seats. Blaine wonders if he were here with Kurt if they would be sharing a chair together. A waiter brings them drinks. Tina has wine, this time a deep ruby red one. Blaine just asks for water. The lights dim, and the music starts, accompanied by an elaborate three-dimensional light show beneath the dome above them. Abstract patterns that spiral and writhe with the sound, unfurling like ribbons, filling the empty air around them. Mesmerizing.

There are erotic elements to the music as well. Or elements Blaine's finds erotic: his body's response is undeniable. And other parts that tighten poignant emotion in his throat just because they're beautiful. It's ancient music from Earth, written for a chorale to sing in a cathedral in worshipful exultation. The layers of voices interleave in complex harmonies, some soar in such clarity and intensity, tears prick in Blaine's eyes. It's as if the music is striking his body like an instrument. He feels the voices within him, pulsing and vibrating and thrilling along his nerves until he's breathless and enthralled. 

The warm cradle of his seat makes him feel like the edges of his body erode away into nothing and he's just a consciousness suspended within the music, and the music within him.

.

The quiet after the concert is like a sensory inversion, a palpable muffled pressure in Blaine's head. He and Tina walk in silence and Blaine blinks in the relatively brighter light of the corridor, trying to reorient his disheveled mind. "I heard the ship may need to divert to the closest station." Tina says, breaking the silence. "Which could delay our arrival at the Capitol, but I'm sure you'll get some official memo or update to your schedule."

Blaine makes a noise of affirmation.

"Did you enjoy it?" Tina asks. "The music?"

"It was..." He tries to find the right word for what it was. Settles on, "extraordinary."

"I'm so glad!" Tina says. "And now we have options," she says. "We could go to the spa or to the Dance or see if Sam and Mercedes are in. Or—? What would you like to do?"

"Actually, I think I'd just like to head back now," Blaine says, his head is still swimming, muzzy and light. It could be the music, or it could be sleepiness. "I could use an early night."

"Oh, I bet. Spending your nights with Kurt hasn't been very restful, huh?" She winks.

Blaine blushes, looks at the toes of his boots as they walk. 

"Hey," Tina says, "Why do you look so embarrassed?"

"I suppose I am embarrassed."

Tina frowns at him, confused. "I don't understand why. Kurt's not someone to be embarrassed about."

"No, I'm not embarassed by him."

"Then...?"

How does he explain simply? "In my culture, my conduct with Kurt would be considered—at best—irresponsible."

"Irresponsible?" Tina stares at him. "That's absurd."

"I'm increasingly inclined to agree, but my situation is what it is. Some things are hard to shake off."

"So... if you've been celibate until now, then Kurt's your first experience with sex and intimacy?"

Blaine nods.

"Blaine, if this is your first affair, if you ever want someone other than Kurt to talk to about it, I want you to know you can talk to me, okay?"

"That's kind, thank you," Blaine says. "And I hope you can appreciate that my position requires that I be discreet about such private matters."

"And you should know, you're lucky to be with Kurt. He understands how much it matters to be with someone who will take care with you through your debut."

"Debut?"

"Your first sexual relationship."

"That sounds rather formal," he says. Kurt hasn't given him any indication of such. But he wonders.

She shrugs. "It can be for some people, I guess? But not always. Everyone's different."

He wants to ask how it was for her, but it's such a personal question, he can't quite bring it to his tongue. Besides, they're close to his quarters. So he nods, and says, "I understand."

"I had a lovely time tonight, Blaine, thank you," Tina says as they come to a stop by the door.

"As did I," he says, and he's unsure what protocol—or good manners—requires, but he leans in to kiss her cheek, and that brightens Tina's smile beautifully. "Good night," he says.

.

Blaine's trying—and failing—to sleep. Tina said Kurt would come find him when he could, but the night is moving toward the next day's morning, and Blaine knows he does, in fact, need the sleep. His mind, left idle, skitters irretrievably toward memory and anticipation and curious daydreams. Beneath his covers, but over the fabric of his pajamas, Blaine cups one hand over the semi-hard swell of his penis. He's trying to recall the precise feel of Kurt's penis in his hand, the texture and heat and weight of it. He's considering masturbating. The thought alone is enough to flood his body with aching want. But it's not quite enough to banish his reflexive hesitation.

That's when his infotab dings with a message. It must be Kurt, Blaine scrambles for it, where it rests on his night table, nearly bumping it to roll off onto the floor in his haste. "Are you awake?" Kurt's message says.

"Yes," Blaine replies with shaking fingers and unsteady breath.

"May I come in?" Kurt asks.

"Oh," Blaine says to the room. He didn't expect Kurt to come here, but rather to suggest a place to meet. Blaine doesn't question it though; he slides out of bed, moves quickly out to the main lounge area and to the door. He scarcely breathes, not wanting to make any noise to wake the Ambassador. He feels like an errant child, misbehaving, to let Kurt in now, like this. When he's dressed down for bed. It would be a scandal were he seen. That doesn't stop him. The danger thrills him, and he opens the door for Kurt.

"Hi," Kurt says quietly. His gaze is weighted with fatigue and affection. He's dressed simply, snug velvety black trousers, soft shoes, and a loose knit white sweater with a wide v-neck. Blaine can tell he's not wearing anything beneath it. Atop his head is a brimmed cloth cap set back on his crown that makes his face look younger. He's so beautiful, every time more than Blaine remembers. 

"Hi," Blaine replies, and Kurt comes to him. Kurt's hands are on Blaine's face immediately, and he kisses Blaine with fierce desperation, inhaling through the kiss, without breaking the seal of their lips. There's too much clothing between them. Blaine's hot. Kurt's even hotter.

"Missed you," Kurt says breathlessly, against Blaine's cheek. "All day." He drops his hands to Blaine's shoulders, smooths down his arms to his elbows. "I'm sorry it's so late, but I wanted see you. I just showered and came straight here."

"I'm glad you came. I wanted to see you too." He takes Kurt's hands in his and tugs him in. "Can you stay a little while?"

"I'd love to," Kurt says, and Blaine leads him to his bedroom. Here is maybe not the best place for this. Though the likelihood of something requiring his professional presence at the current hour is slim. Not impossible though. But the Ambassador would never come in to his room unannounced. He thinks he can keep this discreet. And anyway, he should enjoy this while he can. 

After making sure his door is locked, Blaine sits on the bed, but Kurt remains standing, having taken his hands back to himself to undress. He's lifting his sweater to unfasten his pants, and he's asked Blaine to just wait and watch. Blaine sees the fatigue in the way Kurt moves, loose and heavy, lacking his usual precision. His smile is sweet but tired, and his face is drawn. He drops his cap on the floor with his trousers, runs a hand through his rumpled hair. The corner of his mouth kinks in enjoyment of Blaine's attention on him as he pulls his sweater over his head. Then he's gorgeously nude and crawling into Blaine's arms, all smooth, warm skin and hot kisses as he straddles Blaine's lap and pulls at the buttons of Blaine's pajamas. 

Kurt hums into a kiss and speaks against Blaine's mouth. "I had such plans for you tonight," he mumbles ruefully.

"Anything you want to do is fine," Blaine replies. Kurt's ardor and the pliancy of his body is so enticing, whatever Kurt wants now, Blaine wants it too. Moreso as Kurt pushes Blaine's pajamas open and down his arms, and presses him to his back to pull his pajama bottoms off while Blaine scoots toward the center of the mattress. Soon enough, they're bare skin to bare skin, open mouth to open mouth, and Kurt's knee is pressing between his thighs. His cock nudges the join of Blaine's hip, and Blaine's cockhead catches and rubs against Kurt's belly. The way their bodies come together so easily, with such simple desire, by instinct and Earth's ancient design. Of course they're both human. Blaine could never doubt it.

But Kurt breaks the kiss to stifle a yawn against Blaine's shoulder. "Ugh, but I'm so bloody tired," he mumbles as he drags his lips over Blaine's collarbones and the tension in his body wanes as his weight settles against Blaine more solidly and he stills. "You feel so good." 

Kurt starts moving again, lazily and with haphazard rhythm. Hums sleepily against Blaine's skin as his kisses slow to lethargic nuzzles. "Don't let me doze off on you," he says. "I didn't come here to sleep."

Blaine strokes up and down his spine, soothing, encouraging. "I won't," he says, presses a kiss to Kurt's hair, and then he adds—he hopes—flirtatiously, "How would you like me to keep you awake?"

Kurt huffs a laugh through his nose, but his eyes stay closed. "You've a clever boy. I'm sure you can think of something."

"I can think of a few things," Blaine says, and carefully he rolls Kurt to his back and extracts his arm from beneath his shoulders. He props himself above Kurt and watches his hand on Kurt's chest, brushes his fingertips across Kurt's pink nipples and feels how they contract beneath his touch, watches Kurt's skin pimple and his eyelids shiver. His lips part and he sighs his pleasure. Blaine warms with more than arousal—more than affection. It's some deeper sense of gratification at Kurt's trust, at the way he's responding to Blaine's touch. "But if there's something you would especially enjoy, you'll need to tell me," Blaine says. "I don't really know what I'm doing."

Kurt slumps into the bedding with an approving smile and cracks one eye open. He reaches up and touches Blaine's lips with his fingertips. "How about you show me what was on your mind this morning then, hmm?"


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long 8 month wait. Thank you for your patience & your readership! This chapter picks up immediately where the previous ended, so you may want to revisit the end of it before starting the new chapter.

Blaine's hand stops and so do his lungs. "Oh," Blaine says. The heat that rushes his body is so strong, so sharp, he goes dizzy.

Kurt opens both eyes and moves a hand to cover Blaine's. His gaze is steady and direct, and curiosity gentles his voice. "You've been thinking about sucking my cock, haven't you?" Though mildly spoken, the words themselves are a shock, abrupt and explicit, but Blaine cannot deny they're an accurate match for what he's been imagining since the morning.

It's unsettling how transparent his desires are to Kurt, but it's a wonderful kind of upheaval—makes him want to fall even farther beyond the familiar and controlled. This is what he's been aching for today. Blaine releases a breath that shakes with his eagerness, but his reply is a clear, "Yes, I was." It's so brazen—a powerful admission.

Kurt's smile deepens, and Blaine shifts his attention from Kurt's beautiful face, down his torso, past their hands clasped together on Kurt's chest to Kurt's erect penis. His hand follows his gaze, easing from under Kurt's warm palm, skimming over his belly and taking the solid length of him in a loose grasp. He anticipates putting his mouth around it—and, oh, how he wants to—but though the execution seems straightforward enough, it's daunting for the intensity of the intimacy. Putting his mouth around Kurt, taking him inside like that—his head swims with how very possible and imminent it is.

He knows the sharp bliss of receiving. The memory's been itching under his skin. To reciprocate that feeling for Kurt? Blaine's breath comes shallow and quick. "I want to know what it's like to do that for you." Slowly, Blaine pulls up Kurt's silken hot shaft, savors the weight and shape of it as much as he does the flutter of Kurt's eyelashes and the snag of air in his throat. For all the muddled complexity in his day, this desire remains clear. "I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel."

"I want that too," Kurt whispers, and it's plain in his darkening gaze. "Take your time, and just... mmm... follow your instincts." 

Instincts again. Still such a new thing to surrender to rather than reflexively resist. But the deep compulsion of his desire cannot be denied, those urges that rise up in his body in strange eddies of even stranger and stronger hungers. Hungers for things he wants for no reason other than he wants them. Like this, here, now: he tightens his hand and makes longer, quicker strokes, pulling the satin soft skin of Kurt's cock up over the flushed head of it and back down. He watches the simple motion, and feels with his hand and his heart his whole body's yearning. 

"That's wonderful," Kurt murmurs, and though his hips shift restlessly, his fingertips are light and precise upon Blaine's cheek, then at his temple, then brushing over his hair to trace an arc around his ear, and then back to skin, skittering ticklishly down the back of his neck, making Blaine shiver.

"It is," Blaine replies, and he watches the color rising bright on Kurt's cheeks, the anticipation dark in his heavily-lidded eyes. How his breaths come so quick and keen, and the way his bottom lip catches between his teeth. Blaine is just as caught. Snagged within Kurt's presence, within Kurt's desire for him, within his own rousing intentions. Yet, here, like this, even caught as he is, the tension that's been lodged in his chest unwinds into ease. Blaine sighs it out, closes his eyes, and leans in to kiss Kurt, to coax Kurt's bottom lip free of Kurt's teeth and carefully take it between his own. 

Evenly, he keeps stroking Kurt's cock as he kisses him, loves the velvet heat and the uncompromising hardness of it in his palm. Loves even more how eagerly Kurt meets him, with a sinuous roll of his hips, luscious mobile mouth, and the syllables of sweetest approval muted deep in his chest. Blaine gives himself over to the sense of possibility he finds here, with Kurt, in intimate embrace. For this alone—holding Kurt, so warm and responsive, while kissing him and using his hand to bring him pleasure—it could be enough for Blaine. It's so much to feel, to both give and receive. But the knowledge that more may be discovered—new sensations and emotions to share—drives Blaine to release Kurt's mouth so that he may seek them. 

He looks at Kurt again, for it seems important to keep looking, to be aware. Pay attention. His whole sense of things dilates strangely as he does. Kurt's pale body and long limbs draped across and sunk into the deep blue of his bed. The rise and fall of his chest, the expansion of his ribs with each inhalation, the svelte hollow of his belly, the flush marbling his chest and darkening his nipples, the blood-thick rod of his cock in Blaine's hand. The patient anticipation in his touch and weighted in his gaze. 

He's much as he was a moment ago—a kiss is all that's passed between them—but the star field yawns at Blaine's back with a prickle of awareness up his spine. It's cool, dark and enormous in contrast to the luminous heat and closeness inside, between them. In an instant, Kurt seems just as fathomless: a place for Blaine to fall into, an endless blissful drowning.

It swells in Blaine's throat, the stark and sudden understanding that Kurt, as a person—inhabiting his body—is like a whole world to explore, and what grows between them is just as vast a space to discover as the space that holds them. Even with a simple goal, how is he to begin?

"Don't over think it," Kurt says. It's affectionate instruction given with tender fingers stroking his skin. One hand drifts low on his back, the other pets along the flex of his upper arm. 

But it's not the thinking that's the trouble. The surfeit of feelings, complex and unfamiliar. Blaine wonders if over feeling can be a problem too. Blaine smiles, lowers his gaze, and confesses, "I don't know where to start."

"Start where we are now," Kurt says, and he lays a single, straight finger upon Blaine's lips as if to silence him, but it turns to a seductive slide across Blaine's bottom lip. "Just follow your desire... the one thing you want most, and let it lead you."

Kurt's advice recalls their first night together when what Blaine wanted most was simply to touch Kurt's neck and shoulders. He uses the memory as a place to begin here, with his mouth this time. He lets go of Kurt's cock and brings his hand up to cup Kurt's face, the fine edge of his jaw, to tip his chin up, and then he bends his head to press his lips to the tempting line of Kurt's throat.

Kurt gasps and shivers wonderfully. Encouraged, Blaine takes his time sucking soft kisses across Kurt's skin, below his jaw, into the hollow beneath his ear. He inhales the scent of him and relishes the burr of his moans beneath his lips.

"That's it, Blaine— _oh_ ," Kurt whispers and arches his neck.

It's the most gratifying invitation. "You like this?" Blaine murmurs, rubbing the tip of his nose along Kurt's pulse.

"You're... very good with your mouth."

"I want to kiss you everywhere," Blaine says, and then catches a hasty breath at his boldness.

"Mmm," Kurt says, and twists indulgently beneath Blaine, bringing his hips up in a swaying roll of suggestion—or a reminder. "Please do." Or even a request.

It's one Blaine intends to obey. He has neither the will nor reason to mire himself in cautious indecision. Once that anxiety slips from his mind, all that's left is the desire to follow. He follows it with his hands and mouth, shuffling back toward the foot of the bed as he kisses down the hard plane of Kurt's breastbone to the yielding warmth of his belly until the wet tip of Kurt's penis bumps the tender skin of his throat, and the wondrous heady scent of Kurt's arousal wafts and beckons to him. 

"Oh, sweetheart," Kurt murmurs, and his fingers stroke through Blaine's hair and across his shoulders. 

Blaine lifts his head and cups his hand beneath Kurt's heavy shaft. He moistens his lips, flicks his gaze up to find Kurt's, and presses his mouth to the exposed crown. The simple caress of his lips against the silken skin ripples down Blaine spine and nestles a hungrier ache in his belly and in his balls. Kurt's eyelids shiver and his lips come apart. "That's it," he whispers, and the way his hooded gaze—-burning bright even in the low light—holds fast with Blaine's, the piercing intimacy of that connection is as tangible as the contact between their bodies. "You're doing so well, Blaine," Kurt praises.

They're the last words Kurt speaks with clarity for a time. Blaine touches as he kisses and glosses Kurt's cock with his tongue. He loses himself in patient exploration of Kurt's flesh and how he responds to each glancing sweep, curious grazing lick, or flickering suckle. He maps out the shape and texture of every part of Kurt's penis before opening wide and sucking the smooth head of it into his mouth. He can't stop himself from moaning around the thick slide of it between his lips and the weight upon his tongue. Kurt's voice echoes his with the velvet resonance of pleasure. The answering surge of Blaine's arousal soon has him pressing his hips down, grinding his erection into the cushion of bedding as he takes Kurt in.

It's too much to take Kurt's cock very deeply, but he slides and sucks down as much of Kurt's length as he can, while grasping the root of him firmly in one hand and squeezing one tensing thigh with his other. The stretch of his lips and jaw, how the unyielding girth of Kurt's penis presses and pins his tongue, and the way Blaine's throat threatens to spasm shut even as Blaine strives to take more—Blaine's so open and hot and full and—gods—his mouth is flooded with saliva and his eyes with water and air is scarce to find. 

Kurt mumbles encouragement and pleasure and opens his thighs to let Blaine better settle between them. But Blaine soon finds he has little more endurance giving than receiving. He's woozy for lack of breath, his jaw aches from the unfamiliar stretch, and his neck cramps. Reluctantly, he releases Kurt's penis from his mouth. With his lips numb and his vision blurred, he glances up apologetically. "Sorry," he says, and his voice is so rough and desperate he doesn't sound like himself. He clears his throat and takes a necessary and deep clear breath.

Kurt sighs through a smile that's not at all displeased, and his fingers slide from where they've been cradling Blaine's scalp to rub along the hinge of his jaw. "Sore?" Kurt asks.

"A little," Blaine says, and it's this admission of his limitations that makes him look down and blush. "I'm sorry, I—" He pulls his closed fist up Kurt's cock.

Kurt bites his lip with a hiss and his eyes flutter closed. "Oh, n-no, don't—" he starts, and gasps again.

Blaine stops moving his hand, lets go. "Don't?"

Kurt huffs a ragged laugh and opens his eyes. "Don't apologize for that," he says. "Endurance comes with practice. You're doing wonderfully for your first time—you're so diligent. It felt so good."

"Thank you," Blaine says, and his flush turns to one of gratified pleasure. "I want you to feel good," he says, "May I keep... practicing?"

"Mmhm," Kurt replies. 

To rest his jaw, Blaine returns to lighter touches of exploration. This time, he lets his fingers drift down to the feather soft surface of Kurt's balls, and he follows with his lips, kissing and mouthing curiously, gently—so gently—while he seeks farther back with his touch, curling his fingers and stroking the smooth skin behind Kurt's balls, letting the warm weight of them settle against his fingertips as he draws his touch down and licks across the swell of each testicle in turn.

"Could... you?" Kurt pants and touches the corner of Blaine's mouth. "Hmm... suck them? Just lightly. Hold them in your mouth and... _ah_ —"

Blaine complies, opening his mouth and gingerly taking one, then the other into his mouth until his mouth is overfull with this most vulnerable part of Kurt. Though soft, Kurt's whimpering thunders in Blaine's ears as he carefully rolls his tongue beneath the heavy shape of Kurt's balls. He sucks—lightly—and the sound of it is fantastically obscene. Kurt makes a tight fist in Blaine hair and his thighs shake.

"Good..." Kurt says, "Blaine, oh... that's _good_."

A glance up Kurt's body shows his head is tossed back, his eyes pinched closed, and his parted lips bitten red and swollen. If this is good, Blaine wonders what better might look like—and if he might discover it. Kurt's balls slip from his mouth and Blaine concentrates on pushing his fingers back, into the heated cleavage between Kurt's buttocks, seeking. Kurt said he liked to be touched here. Said it was something they could explore together. With the beat of his heart jammed up hard against the back of his tongue, Blaine traces one shy fingertip over the different texture of Kurt's anus.

And Kurt shivers. "That feels good too," Kurt whispers. He's cracked his eyes open and looks down at Blaine with surprising clarity.

"I still don't know what I'm doing," Blaine says. 

"You're doing fine," Kurt says. 

"May I—?" rushes out before Blaine catches himself to better consider his words.

"Whatever it is, just ask."

"What, um?" Blaine drags his finger more firmly, back up to nudge Kurt's balls and then back to his anus. He settles his finger there and thrills hot as he asks, "You said you liked this. What do you like exactly?"

Kurt holds his gaze patiently—and the combination of Kurt's candid consideration and the touch Blaine's giving him—which, even here in permissive Elyssia, seems to Blaine an illicit sort of thing. But Kurt said some people like it, that _he_ liked it—and Blaine wants so much to learn and understand and keep touching Kurt to make him moan and shiver and climax. Kurt bends his knees up and tilts his hips. "Light touches or kisses are very nice," he says warmly. "Anything beyond that can wait for when I'm more awake with you."

"Kisses?" Blaine asks, wondering as he keeps touching. Yet another technique that wouldn't have occurred to him, though he did say he wanted to kiss Kurt everywhere. The idea of it seems, maybe, dirty, but looking at Kurt now, his heart thrums with curiosity, not distaste. Everywhere, yes. He draws his fingertip more slowly, up and over the tight little ring of muscle, rubbing the way he remembers Kurt did to him in the shower. The muscle flexes softer beneath his touch, and Kurt nods. His expression is so loose, so open, and his desire is so naked on his lovely features. Kurt's so hot here, so tender, and he just showered, so— "Kissed here?" Blaine asks to be sure—or just to hear Kurt say yes.

"Yes," Kurt whispers.

The flash of anticipation and imagination—touching his lips where his fingers linger. A kiss, mouth to tail. It swoops through Blaine's brain as if he's been tipped upside down.

"Do you want to?"

He does, but he asks for the confirmation again anyway, "You'd enjoy it?"

"I would."

"Then... yes, may I?"

Kurt's look is answer enough. "Let me just... move into a better position for you," Kurt says, he shifts and rolls over to his belly and then pushes up to his hands and knees. It's all gorgeous implication and sensual invitation. Over the curve of one pale shoulder, he looks at Blaine, who's moved to kneel behind him."Okay?"

"Yeah," Blaine says, though, somehow, being presented with Kurt's ass like this is more daunting for the obviousness of Kurt's posture. But Blaine's won't let his courage fail him here, not like this. Not when Kurt's waiting patiently for something as innocent sounding as a kiss. He puts his hands on the pert hemispheres of Kurt's buttocks, pets and squeezes and parts them to better expose the shadowed opening between them. 

And then the only thing to do is the doing of it. He bends near and sets his mouth just there, where Kurt opens: a soft, closed kiss to the crinkled rim. His lips move in a light caress and Kurt hums pleasantly and stretches, tentatively pressing back against Blaine's mouth. Blaine flicks the tip of his tongue out and Kurt's hum turns to a soft needful groan.

"Sometimes," Kurt says, and his voice is barely audible, thin and low and quiet as if he's sharing a precious secret. "I can get off this way," he whispers.

 _Get off_ isn't too hard to parse. Blaine pulls back, more than a little amazed to hear (Perhaps?) a confession of Kurt's more private desires. Wonders how often Kurt shares this with his other lovers, or if this is something reserved for those closest to him. "You mean you can climax? From a kiss here?" He touches again with a fingertip, and the muscle flinches beneath his touch, mouthing open and closed, grasping at the pad of his finger. And something about it—a small private movement, a small touch, a question asked—it marks for Blaine another threshold crossed. He doesn't want to stop or retreat or hesitate from going further.

"From the right sort of kiss," Kurt says.

"The right sort?" Blaine echoes dazedly.

"I'm not... uh," Kurt says and shivers as, fascinated, Blaine rubs at the center of his anus, coaxing it to flex and wink for him again. "I'm not asking you to... I just—"

"I really want to," Blaine says, and he goes back down, determined to do his best.

Kurt makes a guttural sound of surrender and collapses to his elbows. The right sort of kiss, Blaine's certain, must be long and thorough, and it must involve tongue, so he gives himself over to this single minded task, licking and nipping and suckling at the delicate skin. Kurt swears and shakes, and beneath his mouth, Kurt's anus yields, letting the next pass of Blaine's tongue sink in, just barely. Enough that when Kurt moans again—deep and hungry and muffled against a pillow—and his rim quivers soft and wordlessly inviting, it catches at Blaine's tongue tip. So Blaine digs in a little, doesn't question the impulse, just follows the yearning in his chest, to push the pointed end of his tongue against the hot little opening, chasing the heat and the pungent sex-sweet scent of Kurt, chasing the beautiful sounds of Kurt's pleasure. It must feel amazing, for Kurt's whole body tenses and shudders; he cries out raggedly and moans Blaine's name.

"Touch yourself," Kurt says. "Blaine. Oh... fuck..." he pants. "Please? Oh, come with me... while you're..."

One hand, Blaine can spare. He reaches roughly for his penis, careless of his own technique, he pulls along his cock at a pace to match the staccato, high-pitching sounds that come with each desperate drag of Kurt's lungs. He works his mouth greedily against Kurt's body, slipping over and pushing in and lashing and laving until his tongue burns with fatigue and his own spit slicks his chin.

The closer Blaine comes to his own orgasm, the more his discipline fractures and instinct takes him. He groans helplessly, grips the flesh of Kurt's ass tightly with his free hand, and he licks and licks and dips in and in, over and over and over and— 

"So close," Kurt grits out with scarce volume. His spine sags and his knees skid farther apart. "Oh, sweet stars... Blaine, please don't stop. Blaine, Blaine, _Blaine... oohhhhh._ " Kurt's thighs snap taut, his spine bows tight. He shudders to his bones and comes hard.

That—and the sound of his own name, chanted like a sacred prayer, brings Blaine's orgasm upon him in a hot swamping rush. He heaves a harsh open-mouthed sob against Kurt's skin, a weirdly distorted animal cry. He spills over his hand, and gasps against Kurt's hot spit damp skin.

And Kurt is still saying his name, more quietly now, a broken whisper. Blaine shivers while he gathers his breath and drags his numb lips across the swell of Kurt's buttocks. His tongue buzzes from friction, throbs with unfamiliar exertion. Even his knuckles ache from the grip he had on Kurt's ass. Kurt slumps forward and down. Blaine loses his hold of him and lets go of his own softening penis. He lies down beside Kurt, but not too close—they're both too hot.

Lightly, with his clean hand, Blaine strokes down the lax arc of Kurt's spine, marveling quietly at being responsible for... this. The imprint of his fingers are livid on one pale buttock, and between they're reddened with friction. Kurt moans contentedly and stretches his legs and feet.

From his face-down sprawl, Kurt turns his head toward Blaine. His eyes shine. "You..." he says with soft static in his voice. He sighs a noiseless laugh. "You really surprised me."

"Did I?" Blaine asks. He touches Kurt's lovely flushed cheek.

"Most delightfully," Kurt affirms with a sleepy and slow spreading smile. "That was magnificent."

Accomplishment warms Blaine. "That was.... the right sort of kiss then?"

Kurt laughs with some volume. "You did exceptionally well, yes." Kurt reaches to pull Blaine's face closer and kisses him slow and deep, lets his tongue linger in soft thorough exploration of Blaine's mouth. When the kiss ends, Kurt says, low and sweet, "I could tell how much you enjoyed it too."

"I loved it," Blaine says, a blush hot on his cheeks at the admission. "Is that... unusual? To like doing something like that?"

Kurt's answering frown is slight, but he smiles too, amused and mildly baffled. "If something is given and received with openness and mutual desire and brings us both pleasure? Then what could possibly be unusual about liking it?"

"Others might think—"

Kurt shakes his head. "Others? What others? We haven't got an audience tonight, Blaine, it's just us."

Chagrined, Blaine concedes, "You're right, of course."

Kurt nods, attempting a more serious face, but he loses his composure to a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Of course," he echoes wryly. But his grin soon gentles into earnest tenderness. His gaze tracks over Blaine's face as if memorizing him. "It's funny," he says more softly. "Sharing this with you is making me feel like I'm new at it too, in a way. Being with you while you experience it all for the first time? It's like I'm getting a second chance for myself."

"Oh—" Blaine wonders about Kurt's first sexual relationship—the older man—but Kurt's eyelids are hanging lower with each slow blink, so he doesn't ask about him. "—is that a good thing?"

"It is for me."

They share a quiet, warm moment. Blaine contemplates his feelings for Kurt now that the immediacy of his physical lust is satisfied, but he fails to name or categorize the sweet pang of them.

"Unfortunately," Kurt says, pushing his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. "I need to go before I fall asleep."

Blaine wishes he could invite Kurt to stay, but it's not viable. "That's... probably wise."

Kurt uses Blaine's bathroom to clean up and then comes out and gets dressed again while Blaine watches. Blaine reaches for Kurt's hand, uncurls his fingers, and kisses his open palm. A tightness in his throat urges him to say something, the right thing, something true. But he doesn't know the words. He closes his eyes as pressure gathers behind his eyes. He's become so emotional since coming here. 

"What is it?" Kurt asks. His fingers twitch in Blaine's hold. 

Blaine turns his head and Kurt cups his cheek. "I don't know." His voice cracks, and excess feeling blurs his vision. Blaine makes himself smile through it. "I don't know?"

"Honey," Kurt says, and he pets Blaine's hair so tenderly. "Look at me, please?" Blaine does. "Is something wrong tonight?"

"Not tonight, no," Blaine says. After a strange and fretful day, so much is _right_. "But I—" His throat closes and he has to breathe carefully to clear it. "I don't understand what I'm feeling. I don't even know how to speak about it, what words to use—in either of our languages."

Kurt drops to a crouch and kisses Blaine's mouth long and sweet. "Your heart and your body have their own wisdom, even if your head doesn't know all the words. It's okay, Blaine. You're a person, not a puzzle to solve. So long as you like the way you feel when we're together and you don't regret it when we're not, it's all right."

"I do like the way I feel," he says, "very much."

"As do I," Kurt says, grins. But his grin morphs into a yawn he covers with his hand. "We can talk more tomorrow? I won't see you until after lunch. Perhaps we can spend some time together after that? Before your afternoon meetings?"

.

The alarm of Blaine's rig jars him from a deep sleep, leaving him disoriented and groggy. He drags himself through his morning routine and only makes it out to the lounge area with five minutes to spare. He doesn't understand why he's so out of sorts this morning. Last night was extraordinary. Overwhelming certainly, but good. Replaying his time with Kurt in his mind, he has no regrets, just the blooming warmth of affection and anticipation and a swooping spike of arousal at the memories.

But it's harder to close off those feelings and attend to the morning reports. Last night—not just with Kurt, but with Tina, the music, the wine, her advice—all of it together has him feeling raw and thin skinned. Coming back to this familiar routine feels like getting back into a cage. 

Still, five minutes is enough time to don his smile and his professional manners. He relies upon the momentum of habit as he goes over the morning report summaries with the Ambassador while she drinks her tea. She looks at him long and critically, but makes no comment. 

As they talk, and Blaine outlines to her some of his communication strategy suggestions for Wes—and gains her permission to discuss the topic with Elliott—Blaine reminds himself of what's at stake, the importance of their work. It's not about him or how he feels. And by the time the others arrive for breakfast, he's got his head back into the right space.

.

After lunch, he meets Kurt near the lift. "Where are we going today?" Blaine asks. He takes his time to admire Kurt's manner of dress—it's always a delight. Today he wears a monochrome palette and military lines: snug charcoal trousers, shiny black boots that cover his kneecaps, and a dove gray jacket with a high straight collar, cut trim on his slender torso with silver epaulettes that emphasize his shoulders. 

"To the main promenade," Kurt says to both Blaine and the lift. "Where you were to have lunch the other day. It's a nice place to walk and talk."

As covered as Kurt is, in strict controlled lines of sturdy opaque fabrics, the contrast of it with what Blaine's experienced of Kurt's body, bare and warm and yielding—falling into flushed and sweating disarray beneath Blaine's hands and mouth... It makes Blaine's chest swell with the urge to press Kurt up against the wall, kiss him breathless and unfasten all the buttons and layers of him to find his naked skin and make him shake and moan and gasp. "You look incredibly sexy," Blaine says instead.

Kurt's cheeks go pink with pleasure at the compliment. "Thank you."

Turns out, the promenade is also a popular place. The wide arc of it is full of people—some walking, some jogging, and some seated upon benches that face the ranks of tall white-barked and purple-blossomed trees set against the broad star field outside. It's paved in a gold flecked stone that yields more softly than stone should beneath Blaine's feet. The interior wall rises up in a high expanse of rough hewn timber planks. They're long enough and uniform enough in their curvature, Blaine is certain they can't have come from actual trees. Whether the technological magic comes from a clever illusion or the clever engineering of materials, Blaine cannot discern.

What's clear is that there's little privacy to be found here for intimate conduct—which may be for the best, if they're to talk as Kurt suggested last night. Blaine tamps down his desire, orients himself in the present moment.

"How are you today?" Kurt asks him as they move into the flow of people. "Your smile... it's different."

"Is it?"

Kurt nods and reaches for Blaine's hand. That seems a safe enough touch, and there's no one from his delegation who'll be here to see.

"In a good way or a bad way?" Blaine asks. He rubs his thumb over Kurt's.

"I don't know. You tell me." Kurt's smile is patient and his gaze interested.

Blaine frowns and looks down, considers his words before he speaks. "How do you... maintain your professional conduct and do this?"

"What do you mean by 'this'?"

The bustle of people at least provides privacy to speak candidly, so Blaine does. "You and I, conducting our affair... making love. It's challenging for me to shift between being the Ambassador's assistant and being... the way I am with you."

"And how is that?" Kurt asks.

"I feel more... myself with you. Freer, I suppose, less inhibited, more sincere."

At that, Kurt chuckles. "You don't seem insincere when you're at work," Kurt says. "You seem committed and professional to me. Those differences between how we feel about ourselves when we're intimate and when we're performing our jobs, they're a continuum of who we are, not disconnected fragments—at least that's how I feel."

"I'll have to trust you on that," Blaine says. "I guess... I'm struggling to feel that commitment at times. This morning, it was hard to... I don't know. Put myself back together? It used to come so naturally to me, I never questioned it or had to apply such effort, but now..." Blaine hesitates and glances at Kurt. "The time we spend together—it feels like the more important thing, but it can't be. I'm not more important than the people and worlds under threat. The work should be first in my mind and my heart always. I shouldn't let myself be so distracted—or self-indulgent."

Kurt scowls.

"Have I offended you? I don't mean that being with you is unimportant—I'm..." Blaine gives up with a sigh. "I'm trying to be honest."

"I'm grateful for that," Kurt says. "I can't claim to understand how you're feeling, but I understand this is new for you, so it's bound to be stressful, even if it's all going well between us. But I wonder if you're creating an unnecessary and false choice for yourself?" Kurt says.

"How do you mean?"

"The reason your work matters is because of how this matters." Kurt gestures between them. "Not just what we're sharing with one another, but what joy, love, and compassion anyone has and shares in their life with others. Whether family or colleague, friend or lover."

"You mean the ways in which we're interconnected emotionally?" Blaine asks.

Kurt nods. "Yes."

"I can appreciate the value of that, of course I can, but isn't that simply part of the foundation of civil society? Not the pursuit of the emotions themselves, but to recognize our mutual responsibility? And even then, that interdependence isn't the primary reason for a polity's existence or its protection," Blaine says, and he smiles to soften his words. "I'm unsure that's the best lens for assuaging my conscience over feeling selfish. If that's your goal here?"

"Society isn't an edifice, Blaine. It's people. What better reason could there be for its existence than cultivating our emotional lives? And why shouldn't you take part in the happiness you're working to protect? That's not selfish."

"It's that I fear my work suffering if I cannot find a way to make these transitions, from private to public ways of being," Blaine says. "Our lives, together, are bigger than the self-interest of any single individual—no matter how enlightened or moral that person may be. The work of civilization takes all of us working in concert to build the structures that may sustain us all."

"Sustain?" Kurt asks. He shakes his head. "Sometimes, Blaine, you talk about your work as if it's something abstract from individual human experiences. As if it exists because you have some honor bound duty to The Greater Good. But the reason to do the work you do is for the preservation of our lives and joy as individuals: that's the true commonwealth. Which may seem a smaller good in comparison—an individual's, or _your_ , happiness—but taken together, across billions of people's lives? That's, to me, reason enough. You needn't martyr yourself."

"Not a fan of self-sacrifice then?" Blaine asks with humor.

Kurt rolls his eyes, but he grins. "Not institutionally or as a culturally enshrined virtue. If everyone spends their days working miserably hard so abstract future others can have—whatever is deemed worth that sacrifice of happiness—then all you have is a system where no one gets to enjoy the benefits of their work. And what's the point of that?"

"Posterity, I fear, isn't an answer you'll find terribly satisfying," Blaine says drolly.

"Because the only time we have is now!" Kurt says. "Why sacrifice ourselves to a future that will only be sacrificing itself too, on and on, with no goal but its own self-congratulatory zeal? When do we decide it's enough to end the cycle of virtuous self-sacrifice and let people find and hold onto personal happiness? It's not selfish to seek happiness. I believe it's morally right to maximize it."

"Then shouldn't it be equally moral to try to minimize and eliminate sources of suffering?" Blaine counters.

"Of course it is," Kurt says. "If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be supporting Isabelle's politics or my brother's decision to enlist in the Navy or my father's political career. People are dying, there's no way around that terrible truth. So I feel we must make sure those deaths—if they are so inevitable—matter. And that means fighting, which does involve sacrifice. I understand that, but it's that sort of sacrifice that many Elyssians are loathe to even discuss. Easier to avoid and distract, which is not the answer either. To use the pursuit of pleasures to hide from the necessary difficult work? That's folly, I would agree. But that's not what we're doing, you and I."

Kurt's scowl deepens. "Because, at the same time, I believe it's vital we don't let the crisis strip away our reasons for fighting in the first place. We should live as fully as we can for as long as we're free too. But not blindly. Hardship will find us regardless, I fear."

Blaine nods. "I just—I don't believe future well-being should be sacrificed for transient personal pleasures, no matter how..." And he slides Kurt a smile he hopes conveys his appreciation of their time together. "Compelling it may be."

"I never said you should. You must believe as I do that there can be a middle way." Kurt says. "That we've more than two options? Despite what I understand of your culture's prejudices toward Elyssia, we're not all decadent solipsists wallowing in the excesses of drugs and sex."

"You know I don't believe that of you, and I hope you can see that we're not all joyless cogs in a soulless machine," Blaine says, gently now to ease the tension that grown between them. "The Ambassador cares deeply—and so do I."

"I know," Kurt says, just as gently, and he smiles with affection. "None of us would be here if at least some of our leaders didn't know better too."

"And as we both know, humans have been arguing over these kinds of principles since we first gave the whole civilization thing a shot."

"There's nothing new under the sun—it doesn't matter which sun," Kurt muses.

"Maybe not," Blaine says with a laugh, "But you're right about something."

"Oh, how generous of you," Kurt teases.

"I'm serious," Blaine says. He pulls Kurt to a stop, takes his other hand, and draws him toward him so they're facing one another. Kurt's giving him an arched eyebrow and a sardonic twist of his mouth. Even wry and skeptical, he's the most beautiful person. Blaine can't help but smile at him. This feeling—this knowledge—he does know the words for. "The value of those thoughts, these conversations and arguments we have, the other things we share—both the pleasures and the pains?" He squeezes Kurt's hands. "Especially the pleasures. Even if none of them is new to humanity as a whole—they're new to each of us as individuals when we encounter them and cultivate them, and those experiences have value, they do matter."

"So I've convinced you?"

"We need to convince my government that the intrinsic value of our shared humanity, is in the dignity and value of our individual lives." Blaine says. "It'll be a challenging argument to make at home, where many traditionalists feel that dignity must be earned and actively maintained through the work of citizenship, that it's not simply our birthright. But you've helped me unravel a few knots in some communications strategy the Ambassador has tasked me with," Blaine says. "Thank you."

"Oh?" Kurt says, and he twists his shoulders, flirting now. "That's right, what did your major say about me? I'm a man of diverse skills or something?"

"Indeed you are," Blaine says, and he puts his thoughts to words to strengthen the thread of the idea. "With the Charn it is a battle for humanity's existence, right? And existence is—" Blaine looks at Kurt. " _This_. What exists in a life, the moments we share. The things our lives create and how we experience it all. And some of that is for posterity, which is rightly for the benefit of all of us, not merely the preservation of static institutions and ossified ideas. People aren't abstractions." 

For a moment the magnitude of it reels in Blaine's head. Humanity, having lost their home on Earth, scattered to the stellar winds on the seven ships with little hope to find new homes. Two ships survived—the Colombia and the Aurelia, and the Aurelia barely. He's still integrating the legends and history of Apathea with what he's learning here, but the shapes of truth are emerging from the shadows of mythology.

What is beyond doubt is how the actions of their crews and passengers to not only survive adversity—as Apathea has—but also to flourish—as the Elyssians have—has led to (among others) this singular moment between he and Kurt. The peoples of the other five ships could've been be lost centuries ago for all Blaine might guess, so for all those individuals' existences that may've been erased along with whatever bright things might've blossomed from their futures, he knows this fight must be won, and it will take the knitting together of these two divergent human cultures to do it.

"So yes, you've convinced me." Blaine says, and he feels the urgency of it then, the blood in his body, his heartbeat, the way he longs for Kurt. More of Kurt, more time, more laughter, more touches and conversation and joy yet to be shared. For all the good reasons to try to save a human civilization, this is not the least of them.

Kurt must see it in his face. He reaches for Blaine, catches his chin with a bent finger, and kisses his mouth, once, chaste but lingering, and though streams of people move past them, Blaine doesn't care if they're seen.

Blaine closes his eyes, breaks the kiss, and whispers against Kurt's cheek. "I feel so alive when I'm with you."

Kurt smiles against his skin. "Come with me?" he says. "I want to take you somewhere else."

.

They descend several levels in the lift, down below the docking level even, into the depths of engineering. It's clear Kurt knows his way around the narrower maze of corridors. Curious, Blaine asks, "What's down here?"

"More life," Kurt says. "And more privacy—usually."

It's to the horticultural vaults Kurt brings Blaine. They're nestled close to the ship's power cores for the heat, and they're nothing like the austere hydroponic bays of the Apathean guild ships. But nor are they quite as grand and decorative as _The Galactic Diamond's_ central atrium garden. Nevertheless, the interlocking array of diffusely lit domes evokes the architecture of a temple. The beds of various plants are intermixed with a sensibility that's equally aesthetic and practical, and the gravel paths between them eschew a rigid grid to wander organically through the space.

"Much of your meals come from here," Kurt says as they make their way among between the beds with the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. "I like to come down to walk sometimes—it's peaceful, the rhythm of the watering system, the hum of the cultivators and harvesters. It's a good place to find solitude in the afternoons if I need to clear my head. Most of the human activity happens in the mornings and evenings."

"Do people make love here too?" Blaine asks.

Kurt looks at him with a cocked eyebrow. "I'm sure some do, but generally, no? It's not one of the usual venues."

"Ah," Blaine says. "That's not why you've brought me, then."

A laugh. "Are you disappointed?"

Blaine shakes his head, embarrassed. "I shouldn't assume such things, I apologize."

"No need. I know how it's been on your mind," Kurt says. Blaine opens his mouth to offer some explanation, but Kurt laughs gently, and continues. "It's been nearly all I can think about, too. New affairs are like this—unsettling with so much passion in the wanting. But I find, enjoying the anticipation can be a wonderful kind of foreplay too."

"You enjoy the wanting and the waiting?" Blaine asks.

"Don't you?" Kurt asks.

"I hadn't thought of it as something to be enjoyed, but rather... endured."

"Goal oriented, I see," Kurt says with a grin. "But process is rewarding too. I'll take you to the spa tonight."

"As foreplay?" Blaine asks.

"Mmhm," Kurt says, "But even more than that, I enjoy our conversations."

"As do I," Blaine says. "So, um, why bring me to the horticultural vaults then?"

"You said being with me makes you feel alive, and here—it's one of the places that makes me feel alive, being among all this life being nurtured to, in turn, nurture us. It's part of the cycle of nature. The stars outside, these plants in here, us. Growing up where I did, I like to stay connected to that understanding, and I wanted to share it with you. You like strawberries, don't you?"

"Yes, my grandmother—as you'll no doubt know—grew them in her garden."

"Here," Kurt says, and he squats beside a bed of familiar looking plants. The strawberries are small and bright among the triplets of serrated leaves. He picks one and hands it up to Blaine, who takes it and holds it in his hand. 

It's warm and shiny. His mouth waters and he lets himself experience and enjoy the anticipation before he puts the fruit, whole, into his mouth and bites down, savoring the rush of its distinctive fragrant sweetness. It tastes like spring and childhood—all good memories. "Thank you," he says.

"Do you still get homesick?" Kurt asks.

"For my family?" Blaine asks and Kurt nods. "It's been seven years since I've been home," Blaine says. "I try not to look back too often."

"Because of work?" Kurt asks. He picks another few strawberries and passes the small handful to Blaine.

"Partly," Blaine says. "Once a person leaves home at sixteen, they're meant to establish themselves as adults before returning to their parents as equals. Custom makes that a ten year span, unless one marries young. Which requires parental endorsement, legally speaking."

Kurt tilts his head and stands, brushing his hands off against one another. "Your world has so many arbitrary seeming rules. Why is that?"

Blaine frowns, for Kurt's is a serious question—one rarely asked among Apathean citizenry these days. But it's also one he's been considering himself more often. He has some ideas. "In the early years, marriages required government permission and sanction if they weren't outright arranged by the Office of Sustainable Reproduction," Blaine says, "so, believe it or not, this is better, a nod to the traditions some still value because it's the way it's been for generations. Parents rarely deny a marriage request."

"For what reason did the government restrict marriage like that?"

"To compare the genetics of the petitioners," Blaine says. "To maximize the diversity of our children."

"I don't understand," Kurt says warily. "Some kind of eugenics?"

"Not exactly," Blaine replies. "It wasn't about favoring specific traits or trying to build some supposedly better human, but rather to maintain and try to restore diversity to a small, vulnerable population. I don't know how much you know of the early history of Apathea's settlement. The planet wasn't the first choice of the settlers."

"I understand the Aurelia was lost along with many of her data stores and computers, but I'm more familiar with your recent history than your settlement."

"As well as the ship herself and data stores, Aurelia lost many of her passengers and crew," Blaine says. "Since our sun is a young blue star, our planet was barely habitable at the time of settlement: all it had going for it was a magnetic field that allowed it keep both an atmosphere and liquid water—and not much of either. Apathea was otherwise lifeless and oxygen poor—too young for even the simplest of autotrophs to have evolved, and she had no complex organics.

"Legend has it, the Aurelia entered the system to scout for habitable worlds—she had two promising looking contenders, Apathea and Ekratea, and Ekratea was the more favorable of the two. But there was an accident—some say a collision with an asteroid, others suggest a powerful solar flare knocked out the ship's computer systems and crippled her. It could have been one and then the other. Regardless, she crashed on Apathea, and while all her life pods launched, not all were recovered, and of the population who survived her initial crash, less than a quarter survived the first year."

"Oh." Kurt's eyes widen. "So that trauma has embedded itself in your culture?" Kurt asks.

"That's not entirely wrong, I don't think," Blaine says. "What virtues aided our survival then, survived with us, even if some may seem strange or oppressive now. That we survived—again—the war with the Charn, confirmed for many traditionalists, the success of methods and institutions which may now be overly rigid and—" Blaine breaks off with a sigh and a smile for Kurt. He doesn't want to venture into those internal issues of Apathean politics now, they've not much time left before Blaine needs to get to the afternoon's work. "Well, it's a challenging time, politically, for us all."

Kurt nods, his expression serious. "It helps me understand... some things," Kurt says, "I hope you haven't found me horribly judgmental, Blaine, of your world. Or of you."

"Believe it or not, you're the person with whom I least fear judgment."

But Kurt's smile is shallow as he looks thoughtfully about at the rows of fruit trees and vines, the smaller shrubs and slender grain-bearing grasses. "I don't believe in taking any of this for granted," he says. "For I understand the care and time and expertise that it takes. But we were lucky on Elyssia—it was, history tells us, a paradise when we found it. The well deserved reward at the end of a long journey, and for us, celebrating and honoring that has become the central affirmation of our culture. Some saw the hand of providence in it—some still do. But truly, we were lucky to be able to set down our burdens. But I worry..."

"About?"

"That, for us, picking up a new burden, like facing the Charn threat, which is, as you said, a fight for our existence." Kurt blinks and breaks off. "I expect we have a lot to learn from you."


	18. Chapter 18

In the center of the darkened meeting room, hovering in the center of the torus shaped table, serenely turns Florisa, a world of the Elyssian Commonwealth. She's a satellite of a gas giant in the habitable zone of a venerable yellow star—Mu Arae on the Apathean star charts. The system itself is on the fringe of Elyssian space. Just moments ago, they viewed Florisa's archived image and saw a world of rolling gold and copper lands, stark white poles, and shallow green seas. Florisa was half a century into her terraforming, and the population numbered a few thousand souls. Three small settlements, primarily scientific and exploratory in nature, once lay upon Florisa's surface, for the moon had—in addition to the right conditions to morph into supporting Terran life—a rich mineral and gas profile. She was the first Elyssian venture into the stellar system.

The current image of Florisa no longer resembles her archive. Her surface is pocked and blackened with great rents torn into it, like some titanic monster shredded the earth with its claws. The green seas are gone and the coppery mountains crumbled. Dust clouds the sky, and what infrastructure the world once had is scattered ruin. 

Fortunately, all 4,308 colonists now rest safely on Elyssian naval ships and are en route back to the inner worlds. The evacuation came soon enough for them. But the rest of it—the burgeoning ecosystem of new life—appears extinguished. Blaine's stomach feels as if its filled with gravel, and beneath the able his fingers dig uselessly into the side of his leg.

The image they're viewing is coming in real time (or near enough that the time delay is less than an hour), which would be, on another day, the main topic of conversation: how the Elyssians have built communications relays that can transmit live—or this close to it—across light years. 

Two Charn cruisers maintain an orbit around Florisa. It's the first look Blaine's had of their ships that's not an historical record. The ships are blocky and rough hewn, but the long prongs of their mass drivers glow with cruel power. The room is silent as several dark shapes launch from the belly of one cruiser. They swiftly make a descent to Florisa's surface and are lost in the dust.

"Is this the closest look we can get?" the Ambassador asks. The hologram casts her face in severe clouds of brightness and shadow, but the strength of the determination setting her features is not a trick of the light.

"Yes," replies Chase, and though his voice is steady, he has to pause to swallow before he continues. "The dust in the atmosphere—what's left of it—is too hot from the orbital bombardment, it's obscuring a clearer image, even in infrared wavelengths. Post-processing may reveal some clues as to what the Charn are doing on the surface."

"What could possibly justify such an atrocity?" Trent asks, abrupt and unexpected in direct address of the room. He's overstepping his role, but the Ambassador doesn't reprimand him.

Isabelle turns to Trent; her eyes are glassy and her mouth unsmiling. "We don't know," Isabelle says. "This has been their pattern of..." she trails off, casts a look to June. "...extermination from the start of this incursion into our systems," Isabelle says. "It's as if all life on these planets is an offense to them." 

"Answering that question—if it's even answerable—may be the key to stopping this," June says. "We had little success determining their motives in our war with the Charn, but their actions were the same then as they are now."

"How can we answer that question when they don't respond to overtures of communication, no matter what methods we try?" Chase asks.

"What I'd like to know," Major Clarington interjects, "is how it's even possible for us to be viewing these images while two Charn cruisers still occupy the system."

The room falls silent for a heartbeat.

"We had a scout in the system who launched an array of reconnaissance drones as the Charn arrived," Isabelle says

"And you expect us to believe that the Charn have utterly failed to detect their presence? And that your scout evaded the rest of the fleet to which these cruisers belong?"

"Excuse me?" Isabelle says, taken aback.

"Major Clarington," the Ambassador warns. "Mind your tone, please."

"It all seems very convenient to me," the Major continues, unfazed. "Can you prove, Councilor, that these images are not manufactured propaganda?"

"What?" Isabelle rises to her feet, as do Captain Dupont and the rest of her staff. Isabelle lays her hands upon the table, fury writ clearly on her face.

"Oh gods," Blaine mutters. He quickly stands with the Ambassador, who turns on Hunter. Beside him, Trent squeaks. Nick blinks, stunned.

"Major Clarington," June says. "You will be silent." To Isabelle she says. "Please forgive this outburst, Councilor Wright. My officer appears to be deranged."

Isabelle inclines her head minutely. "While I trust that you do not share your officer's delusions, Ambassador, this meeting is adjourned."

.

What a mess. June moves quickly down the hall, her hand gripping Hunter's arm tightly, dragging him along with her like an errant overgrown child. Blaine follows along, sharing worried looks with Nick and Trent.

"Ambassador, with respect," Major Clarington says, "I believe you're being deceived. I'm obliged to—"

"Shut up," June snaps. "Be silent, Major. That is an order. I will not tolerate your defiance. You will not speak again unless it's to answer a question I, and only I, ask you. Do you understand?" Her tone is forceful enough, Blaine nearly stops in his tracks. He takes a deep breath to fortify himself. Her anger is not directed at him, though it seems to bleed into his skin regardless.

"Yes, ma'am," Hunter says, more meekly now, but not contrite.

"Nick, Trent," June says over her shoulder. "You're both dismissed for the rest of the day. Please keep yourselves out of trouble. Blaine, you're with me."

"Yes, ma'am," Blaine replies. Trent pats his arm—a silent wish of good luck—and he and Nick turn toward their quarters while Blaine accompanies the Ambassador to the Major's austere rooms.

Once they're inside, "Kneel," the Ambassador orders the Major. He obeys immediately, dropping to his knees upon the smooth black floor in front of her and bowing his head. Impassively, June looks down at him and then about the empty room, and she shakes her head. "And to think Blaine was the one I worried about not getting enough sleep," she says, and it's not wholly void of warmth.

Blaine stands silently and still, his gaze lowered and his hands firmly clasped at the small of his back. His heart pounds in his chest; blood rushes in his ears. Witnessing the Major's humiliation brings him no satisfaction, but he watches, curiously, with a sidelong glance.

June touches the Major's temple. Memory alloys shift beneath the Major's skin and rise to the surface until black matte metal overlays the flesh along one entire side of the Major's face, from his temple to his jaw. A touch sensitive interface arranges itself in soft pastel colors. From this angle, Blaine cannot discern the details as June taps across the flat keys.

"How long has it been since you actually slept like a human being, Major?"

"One hundred twenty-three hours, eighteen minutes, ma'am," he answers.

"Why are you operating in a hypervigilant mode, Major?" she asks.

Hunter's jaw works and his mouth opens, but he doesn't answer. He looks up and frowns in confusion.

"I see," she says. "That won't do. I won't have someone in the Defense Office abusing one of their own to sabotage these negotiations."

Blaine looks up, but doesn't ask the question waiting on his tongue. He doesn't need to. June glances at him and says, "A soldier makes for a poor spy. You can't do surgery with a sledge hammer. The Major probably doesn't even know who meddled with him—or even that he was meddled with." She taps three times, firmly, and the Major shudders. "Hunter, I'm restoring your submemory processors to their defaults. Then I want you to sleep until tomorrow morning, all right? You'll feel more like yourself then."

"Yes, ma'am," Hunter says, and he slumps, sightless and staring, as his rig shuts down. It's unnerving to see Hunter so vulnerable during the restoration; he's like a broken doll. The Ambassador holds his shoulders to keep him from toppling to the floor.

"Blaine," she says, "please find Mr. Evans and ask for a cot and blankets to be brought to Major Clarington's quarters."

When Blaine returns with Sam, carrying between them a sleek dense cube Sam says transforms into a bed, the Ambassador has seated herself on the floor next to the Major with his head pillowed in her lap. It's an unexpectedly tender tableau. The Major's fast asleep, and she pets his hair as a mother might. But when she looks up at their entrance, her lips are pursed in displeasure.

Sam wrenches his unblinking gaze away from the Major and addresses June, "I apologize, Ambassador Dolloway, Major Clarington had requested we remove the bed."

"It's fine," she says. "He's zealous enough in his duty, I imagine he prefers to sleep on the floor, but that doesn't mean he should."

"Will he need medical attention, I can arrange—"

"No. Thank you, Mr. Evans."

Blaine watches the cube unpack itself, shifting seamlessly into a narrow bed with a thick foam mattress.

"Gently now," June says as Blaine and Sam collect the Major and carry him to the bed. Once he's settled, the Ambassador thanks Sam and he leaves. Blaine gives her his hand to help her stand. She brushes the wrinkles from her skirt and takes Blaine's offered arm as they leave the room. "Ask me your questions," she says crisply. The corridor is empty of servants.

"Why would someone in the Defense Office want to sabotage us?"

"You're a smart boy, Blaine, what do you think?"

"Well," Blaine begins. "If the goal is for Apathea to remain uninvolved, it isn't necessary to antagonize Elyssia, so there may be another reason."

"Yes," June says.

"But hasn't the Defense Office been supportive of military involvement? I thought they were just waiting for the appropriate political cover?"

"Politically and institutionally, yes, but that doesn't mean everyone within its structure agrees."

"There aren't many isolationists in the Defense Office," Blaine says. "And those there are, they're not so disadvantaged politically to resort to this kind of subterfuge."

"You might be surprised," June says, "But I agree with your assessment. I doubt this was the doing of the isolationists."

"So what does anyone supporting military intervention gain if we make an enemy of Isabelle Wright?"

"She would lose credibility and power within Elyssia, as would her political allies. It would result in some significant political upheaval for Elyssia in a time when they can least afford it. In short, it would weaken them, distract them. But I assure you, we won't have made an enemy of Councilor Wright. My personal relationship with her is robust and enduring, but it's a good question," June says, "Tell me what hasn't changed in the two-hundred years since our war with the Charn?"

"Our borders," Blaine says, and he feels sick as he says it. "The pro-expansion faction is small though. They've struggled to find traction for their views among the public."

"They're weak, yes, but perhaps not unwilling to seize an opportunity to revive their vision of Apathean imperialism, even through such devious means. Why should we fight the Charn for Elyssia's sake when we could, instead, fight them for our own?"

"You mean, they want to fight the Charn and have Elyssia as the spoils?"

She nods.

"No," Blaine says. "We're not letting that happen."

June smiles a rare smile. "No, we're certainly not." she says. "It's an absurdity to consider. But don't worry. Theirs was a clumsy and desperate gambit that has failed miserably. Major Clarington will be more pleasant company once he's rested."

Blaine nods. "And what do you need from me this afternoon?" 

"I'll smooth over things with Isabelle personally—one on one. We'll have dinner. And you?" She looks at Blaine thoughtfully. "Carry on with your current work. See if Mr. Gilbert is available and willing to talk with you this afternoon, and whatever plans you have with Master Hummel, please keep them. These personal relationships must be cultivated and maintained, Blaine, if we're to succeed. You understand this intuitively."

"I thought you didn't approve?"

"I don't," she says. "Because you've become more emotionally entangled than is prudent or necessary, and I don't want to see you suffer for it. But we make the sacrifices we must, and I have to respect that you're willing to court your own broken heart and personal scandal for the sake of deeper cultural understanding and insight."

Blaine blinks at her. "Of course," he says, and looks down, though his reasons have long since been neither that simple nor clear. At least, he can appreciate the point of convergence: the value of the interpersonal and the small does have bearing on the larger political scale. It is, as Kurt suggested, a continuum. Still, though the Ambassador's assessment may assuage some of his conscience, he rankles at the thought of his relationship with Kurt being part of his job.

"Tomorrow is my half-day," Blaine says. "Will you need me in the morning?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Brief Trent tonight at dinner. He's been far too skittish on this mission, let's let him extend himself. The boy needs some confidence."

"I understand," Blaine says. 

.

Soon after, Blaine meets with Elliott in his personal office. It's one of four similar offices clustered, clover-like, around a small paved atrium. They sit in comfortable armchairs, facing one another over a low table. A slim cylindrical glass of sparkling mint-scented water sweats in Blaine's hand. He looks out at lush beds of ferns and inhales deeply the humidity softened air. After the drama with Major Clarington, the setting is so unexpectedly peaceful, he's able to let slip some of the afternoon's tension and focus on the task at hand—made more interesting (and equally more complex and concerning) now for the possibility of a third faction's involvement.

"So," Elliott is saying. He's sunk back in his chair, one long leg crossed over the knee of the other. "The most substantial difference I see between how you might handle diplomatic communications and how I would a manage a domestic public debate is the target of persuasion."

Blaine tips his head back while he considers Elliott's advice. The murmur of flowing water fills in the silence between them. "Right," Blaine says. "At its heart, this issue is not a negotiation with our political adversaries to find common ground or compromise." 

"No," Elliott says. "From what you've told me, they're not going to shift their stance just because you bring them new science—they're a fixed point. If you try to compromise with them, you only dilute the strength of your case. Your task is to persuade the people who are watching, not the ones you're debating. Let the pressure of public opinion force them to move. Make them follow while you lead."

"Yes," Blaine says. "We don't need them to concede a point to successfully make it."

"Nope," Elliott says, and he smiles easily. He's mentioned neither the Major's disruption this afternoon, nor has he mentioned Kurt. It's been nice, having a straightforward and collaborative, professional conversation. "And don't yield the high ground," Elliott says. "It's rarely enough to be factually correct, you must be ethically consistent too. If you have to descend into less noble tactics, make them drag you there. You get to retain your moral authority—and it might garner you some sympathy support too. But be careful not to come off like a victim, for then you risk seeming too passive. Aim for martyr if you must. People find that heroic."

"The Ambassador is genetically incapable of self-pity, I'm sure of it," Blaine says, and Elliott raises his eyebrows and laughs. "The emotional and moral framing has been my focus so far," Blaine says. "The facts don't require embellishment."

"Be clear, be consistent, be right," Elliott says, "And you know you are."

"Simple," Blaine says and grins.

"Oh, completely," Elliott agrees with a wink.

.

Dinner brings the return of some tension. He cannot relax here as he could with Elliott, for though dinner is technically leisure time for him and his colleagues, he must maintain a strict professional decorum. They're both worried about the Major, and Blaine's aware that, though he received no specific instruction, that discretion is required. "It was a malfunction in his rig, it seems," he says. "He'd been missing sleep."

"That explains a lot," Nick says, and Trent nods, relieved.

Blaine stays for one hand of cards, briefs Trent on the Ambassador's morning requirements and routine, forwards to him the aggregation service Blaine uses to assemble the latest news from home, and gives him a few tips gleaned from personal experience. Once Trent is content enough—and there's truly little more reassurance or encouragement Blaine may offer to help soothe his nerves, Blaine lets himself feel his own nerves—not anxiety, but excitement for the evening ahead. He returns to his quarters to change out of his uniform. The Ambassador is still out.

He walks to the lift, looking forward to Kurt's company and feeling wonderfully unfettered as he leaves the rest of his day behind.

.

"Would you like to start with a massage?" Kurt asks Blaine. Kurt's just listed off several potential activities at the spa, and Blaine's been unable to choose. Together they make their way down the corridor. It's taking on its night time vibe. The lights are dimmer and people are dressed for leisure. Kurt himself has changed out of his earlier structured layers and now wears sueded blue leggings and a clingy sweater of a diaphanous tessellating knit that's the same shade of pink as his lips. It looks like someone made it from something even finer than spider silk. The luster of the lattice overlaid on Kurt's skin beckons to Blaine's hands. "It's a wonderful way to begin a properly indulgent evening after a trying day," Kurt adds with a spark of promise in his eyes. He quirks a flirtatious smile and sways into Blaine's space. "And you look like you need a good long indulging."

That makes Blaine laugh. But, while the day has certainly been stressful and Blaine has appetites he wishes to indulge with Kurt tonight, he shakes his head and wrinkles his nose. "I expect I do, but a massage? I don't think so, no thank you." Having a stranger touching and manipulating his naked body for reasons beyond medical care? Kurt's assured him the masseurs are professional and the process is therapeutic for both body and mind, but that level of intimacy Blaine only wishes to share with Kurt. "I'd be too uncomfortable to relax."

"All right," Kurt says easily. "We're not short on options." The rippled green glass doors of the spa sweep open and Kurt gestures for Blaine to precede him into the anteroom. Blaine steps into the golden light and warmth of polished timber walls and floor, and judging by the sound of his tread upon the floor, this timber is no illusion. Music pulses deep and slow, and air is fragrant with unfamiliar spice, sensual and soothing. "How about a private steam room?" Kurt asks.

"Private sounds perfect," Blaine says.

.

"I heard about the disruption this afternoon," Kurt says. He turns the lock on the door to the changing room they've chosen, and then he leans back against the door. The pattern of his sweater pulls taut across his pale skin, obscuring little.

"Yeah," Blaine says dumbly. This afternoon may as well be last year for all Blaine cares right now. He reaches for Kurt, one hand upon the swell of his pecs. His body is firm and warm under the delicate silkiness of the sweater—it's better than his imaginings, just as Blaine knew it would be. He rubs over Kurt's nipple with his thumb and thrills at how Kurt's eyelashes flutter. "Is that really what you want to talk about?" Blaine asks him.

"I'm asking you about your day," Kurt says as he arches into Blaine' touch. "Remember what I said about enjoying the anticipation?"

"And are you?" Blaine asks, leaning in close, but not quite closing the distance between their lips. "Enjoying it?"

"Oh, yes," Kurt whispers, low and hot. "By the time I've got you exactly where I want you tonight, you'll be enjoying it too."

Just the words make Blaine shiver and close his eyes. "Will I be?" he asks wonderingly, and he gives in to the gravity of their proximity. Kurt hums his affirmation into the kiss Blaine gives him: a sweet press of their lips, a breath upon an ember, a promise.

.

"This is a place primarily for relaxation and conversation," Kurt says, as they settle, nude and freshly showered, on two slatted wood loungers, set side-by-side. The walls surround them with a glittering mosaic of blue and green water tones while the steam billows about them, soothing, penetrating, and warm. "So if you have any cares from the afternoon that you'd like to exorcise as part of that process..."

Blaine shakes his head and inhales. The steam is soft coming in, fragrant, and seems to expand as it fills his head and lungs. It makes his brain tingle pleasantly. "I'd rather not revisit it tonight," he says. "Though meeting with Elliott was good. He's experienced at what he does and very easy to talk with. I can understand why you and he are close."

Kurt smiles lazily. "That makes me happy to hear," he says.

"How was your afternoon?" Blaine asks. It may be that inquiries about each other's day is part of the ritual. 

"Dull actually," Kurt says. "Going over inventory lost during the power outage and sending requisition requests ahead to Paradigm Station. Thrilling stuff."

"Tina said we might be making an unscheduled stop."

"Mmm. Tomorrow evening. I hope your Ambassador won't mind the changes to her regular breakfast offerings—or to the schedule. I won't be able to replace the fresh milk and cream that've spoiled."

"Strict as she seems," Blaine says, "she's far too pragmatic to be fussy."

"Admirable," Kurt muses, and he closes his eyes, sighs, and stretches before relaxing limply upon his couch. Blaine tries to let himself appreciate the spectacle of Kurt's body in languid motion, displayed so unselfconsciously, without the urgency of lust coloring his own intention, but the recent experience of Kurt, so appreciative and pliant beneath his hands and mouth, are too near and too delectable to resist entirely. Blaine is himself erect—has been since he touched Kurt in the changing room, and Kurt is only partially in the same state. It doesn't seem entirely fair.

He reaches out and touches Kurt's skin, gleaming damply in the steam and glowing with a healthy warm flush. Along the sculpted curves of Kurt's deltoids and biceps Blaine skims his fingertips, until Kurt's skin pimples in response and the pulse of blood stirs and swells his penis. "Feels nice," Kurt murmurs.

"I can tell." Blaine reaches farther, to Kurt's ribs and his pecs, across a nipple and down his breastbone. Kurt's thighs part and his cock thickens and stretches up toward his navel. It's fascinating how a relatively remote, nearly innocent touch affects a body. Would anyone's hand summon Kurt's arousal so easily? Blaine's relaxed enough he doesn't stop himself from asking Kurt, "What was it like for you, your debut?"

"Hmm?" Kurt says and rouses.

"Last night—or technically this morning—" Blaine smiles at the memory. "You said being with me made you feel like this was all new again, too, and you liked having a second chance. I've just been wondering."

Kurt's smile fades into inscrutability. 

"I'm sorry if I've overstepped," Blaine says, and his hand goes still upon Kurt's skin.

Kurt shakes his head. "No, don't be. You haven't. I told you that you could ask me anything."

"This is personal though, and I don't expect an answer if you're uncomfortable."

"It's not that," Kurt says. "Not precisely." His gaze is unfocused and his mouth turned down.

It, unexpectedly, reminds Blaine of Nick's face when he confessed his past affair with the Elyssian girl. "Did someone hurt you?" Blaine ventures gently.

A wry smile and a shake of his head. "It wouldn't be fair to Mr. Martinez—David—to say that," Kurt says, and he looks down at Blaine's fingers upon his arm, covers them with his hand and then looks up at Blaine. "I was foolish. Stubborn and too idealistic, which, in combination, do not always benefit me as much as I'd like. "

"Well," Blaine says, keeping his voice light. "I'd hazard a judgment that overly facile cynicism could be far more treacherous..."

Kurt laughs easily, and Blaine's relieved. "I aim for more self-awareness and adaptable realism now," Kurt says. "A compromise."

"Are you successful?"

Kurt look at him, long and steady, and a contemplative smile bends his lips. "I don't know."

It catches in Blaine's chest, Kurt's regard, and Blaine's heart fills with that same unnameable emotion from before, tender and sweet—and stubbornly confounding. "As a fellow idealist, I can appreciate the challenge, at least in the abstract," Blaine says eventually.

They fall into silence for a time, and then Kurt rolls to his side, facing Blaine. "He was," Kurt begins, "the most beautiful man I'd ever seen—at that time in my life."

"David?"

"Yes. He was from the Capitol, and he'd moved to Pax Columba to teach ancient Earth languages at the Lyceum. He seemed so sophisticated and exotic to me."

"You were in his class?"

Kurt shakes his head. "No. I was in the city to attend seminars on central sphere politics—it was that time my father was considering becoming a candidate for the senate, and I wanted to be able to assist him, since I'd been the one encouraging him."

"You said you ran his first campaign."

"Yes," Kurt says.

"You were young then?"

"I was, though I didn't feel it. I suppose looking back, it was the kind of certainty and clarity we have most when we're young. I miss it sometimes," Kurt says.

"Before experience muddies our vision?"

"Muddies?" Kurt says and wrinkles his nose. "What were you saying about facile cynicism? It's not a negative thing, it's not a dirtying."

Blaine looks at their joined hands. What's he's shared with Kurt doesn't feel like a corruption of his morals. Rather he feels purified—clarified. But it's not the clarity of sheltered youthful innocence. It's something better. "No," he says, "Being able to experience something as complex and then to both understand and accept it as that, rather than reduce it into artificial simplicity—that's wisdom."

"Superficial treatments, when mistaken for pith or elegance, may be the worst kind of cynicism," Kurt says.

"Are we still talking about your debut?"

"Unless we're talking about yours," Kurt says, and he cocks his head. "Do you feel dirtied, Blaine?"

"I don't," Blaine says. "But I doubt you'll be surprised—being with you is resulting in some degree of existential chaos for me."

"Existential chaos?" Kurt grins. "Oh my. Sounds terribly profound."

Blaine laughs. "It is though! This isn't a simple thing we're sharing, not for me."

Kurt's amusement turns to tenderness. "I understand that, believe me."

"And it wasn't simple for you either?"

Kurt shrugs. "It seemed simple at the time. I was in love, and everything with David was so beautiful and perfect—at least that was the story I told myself."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing, would be the short answer," Kurt says. "David was very kind, very open, and very honest with me. He had other lovers, and made no pretense of interest in any sort of exclusive long-term romantic relationship. I believed that a casual arrangement was something I could do, but after he took me to bed the first time, I was... hopelessly smitten, and I believed the truth and power of my feelings would result in a change of heart for him. That he would fall in love with me, too, if I just wanted it enough and loved him truly and well." Kurt says. "Of course, it doesn't work that way."

"He broke your heart?" Blaine says, thinking again of Nick's confession.

"Oh, no," Kurt says. "I broke it myself as surely as if I'd thrown a crystal glass against a stone wall." But he smiles wistfully.

"Do you regret it now?"

"Not any more," Kurt says. "I learned some things I needed to learn, things that I wouldn't have learned without the experience I had with him."

"What sort of things?"

"That my heart runs ahead of my head, that lust and love are not one and the same, that loving someone doesn't grant us magical powers, and that knowing how to let go gracefully when the time comes is—" Kurt breaks off as his smile wobbles. "It's one of the kindest and most important skills to learn in this life."

Silently Blaine nods, but he holds more tightly to Kurt's hand.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter incorporates and follows on from a slightly modified version of the short snippet I previously posted, A Ravishing Sweetness)

"After what happened with your Major, will you be able to stay overnight with me?" Kurt asks a few hours later as they walk from the spa to the lifts. The corridors are washed in a dim amber glow, and they haven't chosen their next destination yet. "Or will you need to return to your quarters?" Kurt gestures at his own temple to indicate Blaine's rig. He's not unaware of the privacy issues Blaine's been having.

Issues Blaine cares little for tonight. He can't do much about his rig's location monitoring, but no one will be keeping tabs on him—he has, if not the Ambassador's approval, her permission and Major Clarington will be sleeping off the worst of his paranoia. Plus, the heat of the steam room and the gel bath that followed has Blaine unable to summon the smallest twinge of reluctance. Kurt's hand is an intimate, promising pressure at his waist, and Kurt's smile and gaze are all for him. Blaine wants to kiss the alluring curve of his mouth. And he could, right here, if he chose to. It's a heady thought. "I'm free to stay with you," Blaine says, leaning into Kurt's shoulder as they walk. "I want to wake up with you and your sunrise. Tomorrow is my half-day. Trent will be taking care of the Ambassador in the morning. She won't need me until after lunch."

"Oh!" Kurt's smile broadens. "So you don't need to be anywhere early?"

Blaine shakes his head. "Nope."

"Then... I'll ask Mercedes to take care of breakfast, and we can have an extremely lazy and excessively pleasurable morning together."

"That sounds exceedingly wonderful," Blaine says, and Kurt laughs.

They make it to the lift. "Since neither of us has an early start, is there anything else you'd like to do this evening before we turn in?" Kurt asks. He gestures for Blaine to precede him into the lift.

The question has been hanging in the back of Blaine's mind for a few days now. He can't think of a reason not to ask tonight. "Would you show me the Garden?"

Kurt's lips part and his eyes warm. "Are you saying you'd like to make love there tonight?" 

"Um. I don't know? But I… I want to see it after dark. I nearly went the other night on my own, because I was curious, but I didn't know if—" Blaine pauses to gather himself, lowers his gaze. "I got scared. I realized I didn't know if that was something people did, go there to walk and look around? Or I worried I'd be unwelcome as an outsider. I didn't want to be rude or inappropriate." He laughs self-consciously. "And I didn't want to get lost."

"You should have spoken me sooner, Blaine, if you were scared?" Kurt's hand is gentle beneath Blaine's chin, tipping his face up and searching his gaze. "I don't want you to be scared."

The lift doors close and they sink. "I'm not scared when I'm with you," Blaine reassures. "Not any more, but when I'm alone, sometimes…" He closes his eyes, focuses on the pressure of Kurt's fingertips at his throat. "There are a lot of pressures that intrude, and it can be harder to feel the same clarity I have when we're together," he whispers.

"Harder because you fear people knowing? You fear what they'd do if they found out and what they'd think of you?"

"Yes," Blaine says. "That's part of it—that and the general existential upheaval." Blaine opens his eyes.

Kurt laughs, but he speaks gently. "I wish I could make this easier for you, but please believe me when I say shame is a wasted emotion. You've no cause to submit yourself to other people's judgments about your private pleasures or your heart's intimate desires. It's none of their concern, and frankly, they're the ones who should feel shame, for being so intrusive and bigoted."

"I'm trying to very hard to accept that," he says.

"Well," Kurt says, tilting his head and leaning in. His eyes crinkle with affection. "I believe I can help you with that." His lips meet Blaine's, soft and warm and Blaine sighs helplessly.

.

Kurt leads him through the braided arch of branches, beneath the clusters of pink glowing flowers, and into the fragrant velvet nighttime of the Garden. Blaine trails behind, oriented in the clasp of Kurt's hand around his. His heart beats high in his throat.

The songs of nocturnal insects and frogs have replaced the birdsong of the daytime, a constant rise and fall of rhythmic hums and croaks that blankets the murmur of flowing water. It's so even in its cadence, Blaine could time his breathing to it in meditation—if that's what he were here for. He imagines the colorful songbirds tucked in their nests, sleeping. He watches his hand in Kurt's and the pale path beneath their feet.

And nearly runs into Kurt when he stops.

"Hey," Kurt says with a soft laugh. "You still with me?"

"Yes," Blaine replies hastily and he looks up.

Kurt's free hand finds his other, interleaving their fingers, and he steps closer to Blaine. Golden spheres of light pulse and drift around them, casting Kurt's beautiful face in soft blooms of light and shadow. "Okay so far?"

"Yes," Blaine says, smiles. The entrance is a discordant bright shape in his peripheral vision. "We can go farther in than this," he says.

A plaintive cry breaks over the ambient soundscape. Something about it—the frequency or the naked yearning—pierces Blaine, hot and sharp. He whimpers reflexively. The cry comes again: harsher, louder. Insistent. Blaine casts his attention about, tries to determine the direction. It sounds close.

"Still okay?" Kurt asks, humor in the quirk of his lips, but he doesn't wait for Blaine to answer, he dips his head down and rubs the tip of his nose against Blaine's neck. The cry comes again, faster, hoarse and high, desperate and again, again, quicker and quicker as if reaching for something—then, rising in pitch, drawn out long and exultant. Finally quieting into gasps of relief and laughter. Blaine realizes what he's just heard. His whole body flushes hot. He tips his head back as Kurt nuzzles along his pulse.

"That was someone… having an orgasm?" he asks to confirm.

"Mmhm," Kurt murmurs against his throat, his teeth scrape Blaine's skin then, and he steps closer, erasing the span of air between them. His hip brushes across Blaine's returning erection, a teasing and deliberate sweep back and forth. Another voice comes in the night, an affectionate murmur that breaks off with a groan. Blaine can't make out words. "Sounds like they're still going," Kurt says, low and soft. "Do you want to go see?"

"If that's… appropriate? I'm curious."

"People often come here in order to be seen," Kurt says. "Especially if they're being that loud. Think of it as a performance. They'll appreciate an audience."

"Oh…" Blaine says.

"Come with me," Kurt says, and he tugs Blaine's hand.

Dizzy, Blaine follows Kurt deeper into the enveloping life of the gardens, along a winding trail. The Garden's entrance disappears behind them. Blaine doesn't pay attention to the turns or the forks in the path that Kurt takes. Kurt seems to know where he's going, so Blaine lets himself be lost. The unintelligible conversation, pleasured moans, and intimate laughter grow louder and easier to discriminate. Kurt slows as they approach the end of the path where it widens into a circular clearing and moves aside for Blaine to step out first. Maybe it's a glade or a lawn. Blaine isn't sure what to call the manicured grassy expanse before him. And he can't care very much about the particular taxonomy of garden spaces, for upon a broad round couch in the center, are three naked people.

One of them is—he thinks—the girl who works in the gym. She's on her knees and elbows, her blond hair swept over one shoulder, and her peaked breasts hanging below her, swaying with the motion of her body. She's settled between the open legs of another woman, dark haired and dusky skinned, kissing the curve of the woman's belly while one of her hands works even lower, doing something to the woman's genitals that Blaine can't quite see, but which has the woman lying before her arching and panting and pleading. Kneeling behind the blonde woman is a man, muscular and tan like Sam, but with shaggy dark hair and a close-trimmed beard. He's squeezing her ass with one hand while, with the other, he drags the crown of his cock up and down and between the shining swollen lips of her sex, intermittently making her thighs shake and her breath escape in needful groans.

Blaine's never seen an entirely naked woman before—and aside from himself and Kurt he's never seen an entirely naked man sexually aroused either. He doesn't know all the words in any language to describe what he's viewing. But watching their pleasure, he doesn't need them. His body understands in some primal, pre-verbal manner. It's embedded in his cells, and she's the one he just heard climax. He stares at the slide of the man's cock against the girl's body and it's like he can feel it himself, some strange sympathetic blended memory of sensation, not only of the press of Kurt's cock between his thighs and his buttocks, but also of the lush generosity of Kurt's mouth opening around him.

"Kurt," Blaine reaches back for him blindly, needing the feel of his skin, his heat and physicality.

And Kurt is right there for him, moving near, warm and solid against his back, breath soft by his ear, raising a hot chill upon Blaine's skin. Blaine grabs an unsatisfying fistful of Kurt's shirt and leans back against him. "Do you want to watch them for a while?" Kurt asks. His hands fold over Blaine's shoulders and squeeze. The hard ridge of his cock presses against Blaine's ass.

"I—?" Blaine says and his voice gives out. He can't look away from the erotic tableau before him, and his blood simmers a prickling heat within him, as if he were the one being touched or doing the touching. If Kurt touched him now, on his cock, he's certain he'd come swiftly.

"I promise, it's entirely expected. Look, do you see? We're not the only ones here," Kurt says. Around the perimeter of the clearing, beneath the low hanging branches of trees and nestled among hedges and shrubbery, Blaine finds Kurt is correct. Others, couples, trios, and a few single people take up benches and couches and long reclining chairs, their attention is upon the lovers on display, but their hands are on themselves and their companions. None of the people watching are completely naked or engaged as intimately as those they watch, but their clothing is in disarray. Blaine catches glimpses of bare skin and movement in the dim bursts of illumination. "Do you want to stay?" Kurt asks.

"Yeah," he tries to reply, but it's all air and no volume, so Blaine nods and says more decisively, "I do, yes."

"Let's find a place to recline," Kurt says. "All right?"

Kurt's arm around him is stronger than Blaine's legs feel, and he's grateful for it as Kurt steers him past a few vacant benches to an elongated chair with a low scrolled headrest. It's wide enough for them both. Kurt sits first, stretches out his legs and scoots to the side to make room for Blaine; he smiles encouragingly and extends a hand to Blaine.

Blaine lies down with him, on his side, facing the trio of lovers. Kurt's hand rests on his waist, and his chest is flush behind Blaine's shoulders. "They're beautiful, don't you think?" Kurt murmurs and his fingers find the magnetic snaps of Blaine's shirt, nimbly separating each pair between thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah," Blaine says, and he shivers as Kurt slips his hand under the fabric of his shirt and passes over his bare chest, catching a nipple beneath his fingers and tugging. "What are you doing?" Blaine asks.

"Enhancing our enjoyment," Kurt says. "Though, I should tell you, it's considered impolite for a person watching to have an orgasm before those putting on the display have finished. It's like applauding an orchestra while they're still playing."

"I understand," Blaine says, and then the dark haired girl cries out louder. The blond girl has her mouth on her, between her legs, and from this angle, Blaine can see more, how the blond girl's working her fingers inside while licking quick strokes up higher. "Oh gods," Blaine says. She's going to come soon, and he feels his own arousal like a roiling inferno under his skin, his balls ache and his cock throbs and his throat dries around harsh shallow breaths.

"You're okay," Kurt says, raking his fingertips down to Blaine's waistband, leaving tingling trails in their wake. "Watch them, it's okay. Try to relax."

"Kurt," Blaine gasps as Kurt undoes his fly and slides his hand inside, and it's just the thin layer of his underwear between his cock and Kurt's hot palm. He just cups Blaine, doesn't rub or stroke, and for that Blaine is grateful, though his whole body vibrates with the urge to rut against Kurt's hand, to just— Blaine clenches his jaw and resists the urge.

Dimly, he registers several things at once: First, that other people are looking at him. A couple across the clearing catch his eye: two men, their attention is both curious and hot, and Blaine's head swims. Second, the man in the center is pushing his cock into the blonde girl's body and she's making the hungriest sounds, muffled into the other girl's intimate parts, where she's sucking now, noisy and wet. Third, the dark haired girl is climaxing.

Fourth, and most potentially devastating, Kurt is starting to move his hand now, squeezing, slowly applying more pressure as the girl's wordless pleas become a harsh wail, and her body snaps taut. "Breathe, honey, just breathe," Kurt says, and his fingers are tight around him and dragging down, and it—strangely—helps calm the urgency gathering in his belly. Blaine tries to relax all the tension in his body and takes Kurt's advice to breathe. He knows how to breathe.

So he breathes and floats, immersed in the sharp heat that's flooding in his body and swamping his brain. The ache of his arousal bleeds along his nerves, dispersing the singular focus of his craving, but it's all still contained within him. His head is muzzy, but he's wide awake. He divides his attention between the trio of lovers and the pair of men on the far side. He watches them watch him and Kurt, and he imagines them—he and Kurt—being the center of attention, being the ones performing for the enjoyment of others, of people witnessing their lovemaking and their pleasure as something beautiful. He imagines himself naked in front of a crowd and Kurt with him. For a long moment, he closes his eyes and relishes Kurt's hands on him, the damp caress of Kurt's lips at his neck, the firm line of his body tucked up behind, the lightness of the air on his skin where his shirt has fallen open.

The man is the last to come, driving into the blond woman's body with singular focus. She comes again before he does, with the dark haired woman smiling and petting soothingly through her hair. They are beautiful. They break apart and lie together entangled, lax and laughing. 

Kurt tips Blaine to his back and withdraws his hand from Blaine's fly. Blaine opens his mouth to breathe or speak, but before he can do either, Kurt leans down and kisses him, his tongue slips in hot and demanding. The telltale cries and moans of others achieving their satisfaction come around them like some peculiar erotic encore. Blaine grips Kurt's shoulders and tries to pull him in deeper, closer—but with a groan, Kurt sucks at his bottom lip and withdraws. "Let me take you somewhere?" he says. "More private? I want— Mmph!" Kurt hums as Blaine drags him into another kiss. he shivers, pulls away, and then clambers over Blaine to stand and offer him a hand. "Please?"

.

Kurt has a favorite grove, he says. The winding labyrinthine trip there is a blur for how close Blaine is to coming, how his blood vibrates so keenly, how badly he wants. Dimly he's aware of Kurt closing a gate and setting a light atop it to orange. And then Kurt's guiding him to a long low padded bench upon a stone patio beneath a lattice canopy draped in some night blooming vine. The bench has rolled arms and no back, and around it are scattered strangely shaped pillows, bolsters and wedges; a stack of light blankets; and a table with refreshments and supplies. Golden bursts of light swirl through the air as Kurt presses him down to sit and pulls at his clothes. Muffled cries come in the night along with the sound of water. Nearby a bird begins a serenade to accompany the songs of the frogs and insects. 

A cooling breeze softened with humidity brushes Blaine's skin as Kurt drags his trousers off and leaves Blaine completely naked. "I want to take you inside me," Kurt murmurs near his ear, and he brings Blaine's hands to his flat belly as he straightens, pulls his top off, and casts it aside. "Want to surround you and hold you so deeply. It's all I've been able to think about since last night. After the way you kissed me..." He draws one of Blaine's hands down his spine, down over the still covered curve of his ass. "Would you like that too?"

"Yes," Blaine says, an answer to everything in the moment. He's too far gone, beyond doubt or questions.

"Did I tell you how much I like it when you say yes?" Kurt says and grins. Then he pulls away to shimmy out of his leggings and comes back to Blaine nude. He straddles Blaine's hips and sinks into a deep kiss with a sigh of relief. His cockhead slides wetly across Blaine's belly. And gods, the scent of him, so hot and needful, the sweetness of his mouth and the sheltered spread of his thighs. And he wants... 

Blaine turns his face to break the kiss so he can breathe, and Kurt leans over to the table, selects a slim cylinder of a cream colored wax-like substance. It's no thicker than a finger, and about the same length. The ends are rounded. Kurt shows it to him. "We need lubrication," he says. "Help me insert it please?"

The surface of the cylinder begins to melt as soon as Blaine has it between his fingers, buttery smooth. Kurt guides his hand back and lines the tip of it up with his anus. 

"Push it in all the way," Kurt says. 

It slides in easily and soon Blaine's got one slippery finger pressed to Kurt's hole. He rubs slickly over the tender rim, presses gently at the center, and looks up at Kurt, dazed and aching and strangely paralyzed in the moment—waiting for what Kurt wants to give him with a patience that seems to take him out of his own body. It's like all the wanting and anticipation has burned itself out and now he's just this: here.

Kurt hums approvingly and kisses his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. "That's it. Give it a minute to melt."

Blaine finds he still has the use of his tongue, "Okay," he says, and, "Kurt." He runs his other hand up the back of Kurt's arm to his shoulder. Holds him close and steadies himself there, in Kurt's steady gaze.

"See? Now I have you exactly where I want you," Kurt says, petting the side of Blaine's upturned face. "And you're enjoying it. You loved my mouth on your cock, hmm?"

"Oh... yes," Blaine says.

"You'll love this too," he says, and then he reaches down between them, takes Blaine's penis in a firm hand and brings it back to press its crown against his hot little opening, pushing Blaine's fingers away. Blaine sets his hand on Kurt's hip and blinks his eyes wide.

Then Kurt lowers himself, coming down around Blaine furnace hot and fist tight, and Blaine tenses up everywhere. "Oh gods." He's going to— it's more than he can take.

"Relax," Kurt murmurs. "Breathe for me, sweetheart."

Blaine tries. Kurt doesn't move, just settles. "You have a meditation practice, right?" Kurt pets through Blaine's hair, soothing.

"Um, yes."

"Close your eyes, breathe, relax."

Blaine nods, gulps in a breath, and tries harder to center himself. But all he can feel is Kurt around him, and he is, yes, utterly taken.

Kurt whispers in his ear, "You feel so good. I knew you would." It sends a pleasant tingle across Blaine's scalp and down his spine.

When Blaine feels calmer, he says. "All right, I'm all right."

And Kurt moves, so slowly. But it's absolutely devastating. With a choked off gasp, Blaine comes, hard and shocking, helpless to stop himself. "Sorry," Blaine mumbles, "oh... I'm..." He closes his eyes and presses his face to Kurt's neck.

Kurt laughs affectionately and strokes Blaine's back. "It's okay," he says. "We can work on that." And he keeps moving, still slowly. Blaine clings to him, clasped deep and warm inside Kurt's body. "Think you can keep going?" Kurt asks.

"I... If you keep doing that."

"Okay, stay with me, Blaine."

Kurt gives him deep, indulgent, and increasingly hungry kisses as he moves. And it's all getting so hot. The sweat rising between them, Kurt's panting breaths against his open mouth, Kurt nipping at his lips, Kurt swallowing down his whimpers. The furrow of Kurt's brow, his heartbeat surrounding, the shift of his cock between them, the flex of his hard muscled thighs. And Blaine feels it too, in his chest—light—in the depths of his belly—hot—and in his balls—heavy. Having his cock enveloped in such sweltering close bliss. It's singularly demanding. The tight cinch of it is different from Kurt's mouth, but no less consuming. All of his consciousness is bent to the intersection of his body with Kurt's.

Blaine's unsure out how to move with Kurt, so he hangs on and lets Kurt take him over. Breathless and tireless, Kurt rises and falls, swivels and sways, wrapping Blaine in eddies of the scent of him: sex, sweat, and cologne. Kurt's fingers tangle in his sweaty hair, winding and clasping tightly, tugging Blaine's head back, baring his throat. It changes the timbre of his moans as Kurt lays his mouth upon Blaine's pulse and speeds the rolling lift and push of hips. The obscene squish of the lubricant and Blaine's semen is between them, combining with their sweat, and the wet sounds of their bodies interleave with the flow of water over rocks.

"You're so good, Blaine," Kurt whispers. "I'm... I just need to—"

Kurt arches back, braces himself with one hand, wraps the other around his cock. He's gorgeous, the arc of his ribcage, the taut stretch of his muscled belly. His pale skin flushed petal pink across his chest, his nipples peaked even darker, as dark as his blood flushed cock.

"Can you move for me?" Kurt asks Blaine, rocking his hips in encouragement. Blaine shifts his weight, leans back against the couch and takes Kurt 's hips for leverage, braces himself with his heels, pushes up with a tightening of his buttocks and belly. Slides in deeper, and it's fantastic, the raw pleasure of it. Though it threatens to sap the strength from his muscles, he grits his teeth and pushes up again. 

"Just a, uh, yeah, like that," Kurt says. "Not too fast, just keep it even... that's perfect."

Blaine pulls Kurt's hips forward as he pushes his cock deep into his ass. Kurt sways and bows back with a cry. His fist around his cock tightens.

"Feels good?" Blaine asks.

"You have no idea," Kurt mumbles. He shakes his drooping hair from his forehead and gives Blaine a slack grin. "I like your cock."

"Yeah?"

"Mmm, you fit me just right," Kurt says, sighing as he slows down, matching his movements to Blaine's. Languid, indulgent.

"You're so," Blaine says, "captivating. Like this."

Kurt bites his lip, grins more broadly, and raises one eyebrow. "Captivating, am I? And are you caught?"

"Helplessly," Blaine says.

"Oh, sweetheart," Kurt says, and he tips forward again; his arms slip around Blaine's neck. He murmurs softly against Blaine's lips. Then he kisses Blaine on the mouth hard, seals their lips together, and sucks the breath from Blaine's lungs. Deep exhale through his nose, then an inhale, and then he's filling Blaine back up again with new breath. Blaine lets Kurt breath for him as Kurt rocks against, holding him so tenderly, inside and out.

When he withdraws from the kiss, Blaine blinks up at him, dazed. 

"Are you ready to come again?" Kurt asks.

"Yes," Blaine says. "I think so."

"Okay," Kurt says, "I'm just going to, ah, pull off and turn around. I want you to get behind me and keep fucking my ass, okay?"

"Yeah," Blaine says.

Kurt does, and for a moment the loss of contact is like a brutal inversion, but Kurt turns and bends over the opposite arm of the couch, presenting his backside to Blaine. His thighs and buttocks are red with the friction of their movements, and shining slick with everything. Kurt reaches back and tugs his cheeks apart, showing Blaine where he's just been, where he's wanted. Curiously, Blaine lightly touches Kurt's anus with his index and middle fingers, finds it so soft, open, and slick His fingers slip in easily. Kurt shivers and says quietly, "Put your cock back in, please?"

Blaine does. He pushes back in and his spine nearly buckles with how intense the pleasure is.

Kurt grunts and grinds his ass back against him. "Fuck me however you want," Kurt says.

"How do you want it?"

"Mmm, quicker now, if you can?" Kurt says. "I like the friction."

"I'll try," Blaine says.

"Whatever you do, I'll be coming again soon, so don't worry if—oh!"

Blaine fucks Kurt with a quick snap of his hips in and a sharp draw back. His brain feels like its melting into slag, and his thighs and lower back feel bizarrely uncoordinated trying to establish such an unfamiliar repetitive motion, but he focuses on maintaining neat strokes of his cock, as fast and forceful as his body will let him maintain. He wants to be good for Kurt.

Kurt swears vehemently, words Blaine doesn't know, and his head drops to the arm of the bench between his elbows. "Okay... that's—oh, fuck. Fantastic."

Blaine struggles to keep it up for long, especially as he gets closer to coming himself. But Kurt's making such gorgeous desperate noises, swaying bonelessly in Blaine's grasp. Blaine leans over him, letting Kurt take some of his weight as he falters. Kisses the back of Kurt's neck and tries to keep up the pace he's set himself. His throat is dry, his breath rasps out in harsh staccato puffs. But it feels incredible. He both wants it to last forever, and he desperately wants to come. 

Coming seems the more irresistible. Inevitable. He lets the building swell in his belly bear him forward, fucking Kurt messily, but without stopping.

"I'm close," Kurt says. "Blaine."

Blaine finds some reserve, digs his fingers into the upholstered arm and speeds again, faster than before, even a little—miraculously—harder, and Kurt cries out, gasping and sobbing nonsense, until Blaine feels his body clamp tight and then release into strong squeezes around his cock. Kurt shudders hard, shivers and jerks against him. Blaine keeps still as the spasm of Kurt's ass wrings his cock. He muffles his moan against Kurt's shoulder and pinches his eyes shut as it ebbs and Kurt goes slack against the support of the bench. Blaine pulls back and pushes back in again, manages a few more feeble thrusts until his orgasm sweeps through his body, emptying him of all his tension and ache as the rapture floods in.

"Gods," Blaine says, and his knees give out. He slips out of Kurt, barely catching himself as he slumps back to the other end of the bench--barely catching himself from falling off the side of the couch.

Kurt turns, fumbles his way into Blaine's arms. "Are you sure you've never done that before?" he mumbles against Blaine's throat.

"I would have remembered if I had," Blaine says. He stares up at the vines dangling above him, their sweet scented white flowers are like stars against the dark green foliage. 

Kurt yawns until his jaw cracks. He reaches for one of the blankets on the ground and pulls it up, shaking it free of its folds. "I know we're a mess, but nap?"

It's strange to think about sleeping here, but they're safe, private, comfortable, and Blaine's unsure his legs would support him far enough to accomplish anything more than promptly collapsing to the ground. The bench is more comfortable. So he tightens his arms around Kurt and says, "yes," as Kurt pulls the blanket over their cooling bodies, and he lets sleep take him.

.

He wakes again too soon, and this time struggles to get back to sleep. Kurt, pillowed against his chest, is sound asleep. He looks young and vulnerable with his face slack and placid, and his drying hair soft and free of style. It sets a tremulous and fierce yearning in Blaine's heart that has nothing to do with anything as straightforward as a desire for more sex. It remains an emotion Blaine doesn't understand. But he tightens his arms around Kurt and tries to remind himself that this is only something he's able to enjoy for a brief time, and then he will have to let go. And that fact brings a bitter nausea to Blaine's heart and tears to his eyes. How is he ever going to say good bye to something that pierces his heart with unbearable dread just in anticipation of its loss?

In Kurt's arms, he finds so many things he's lacked. Safety, relief, and connection. Joy. But even more than the honesty of pleasure, he's found a deeper sense of his own integrity, and it's different from what he thought he knew about himself. Having just found this sense of unimpaired wholeness, he doesn't want to lose Kurt. He doesn't want to let go, gracefully or otherwise.

Blaine understands, he won't be able to bear this loss. What he's to do with that understanding, he doesn't yet know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _13 January 2017 - fic updates are on a temporary hiatus until I finish "The Arrangement". Thank you for your patience. <3_


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